


Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

by wendelah1



Category: The X-Files RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Romantic Suspense, F/M, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Suspense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-30
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:44:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3846223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendelah1/pseuds/wendelah1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just when Dr. David Duchovny thinks his blind date can't get any worse, his insipid dinner companion pulls out a gun. On the brink of a scientific breakthrough, Dr. Duchovny had knowledge that dangerous men would kill to possess. His only protection is Gillian Anderson, an agent with Tactical Executive Security. He desperately needed to trust someone, and Agent Anderson was it. But David senses that Gillian is keeping more secrets than she's revealing. With his life in chaos, can he trust the secret agent?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Could Write a Book

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to tree, idella and idunnoh for their invaluable help with this story. Thanks to the mods at Unconventional Courtship for giving me yet another chance with this fic.
> 
> Disclaimer: this is a work of fiction.
> 
> Thanks to the WIP Big Bang and my stalwart beta/cheerleaders, this story is now complete. The beautiful book cover (on Chapter One) and page decorations were created by Loracine. I am in awe of her talent. Please go check out her [Master Art Post](http://loracine.livejournal.com/23778.html).

Gillian had the best instincts in the personal security business; everyone said so. It was a good thing she did, because with her bad memory, she'd have made a terrible conventional investigator. Everyone agreed on that as well. 

Of course, it didn't take any special skills to see that the blind date at the next table wasn't going well. It was obvious to anyone within earshot of their less-than-cordial conversation. Their body language was a dead giveaway, too. Just look at the way she was leaning forward, frowning, both hands on the table. His posture was defensive, leaning back, arms folded defiantly over his chest. He was frowning as well, but where she was angry, he looked merely impatient. It wasn't an argument between lovers or close friends. Her attire and makeup was just a tad too careful, too studied, for an ordinary evening out with the boyfriend. The guy was even wearing a jacket, which you didn't see much around here. This was Santa Monica, not Manhattan. They'd both dressed to impress, but had apparently left their party manners at home. 

Gillian sipped happily on her glass of chenin blanc and picked at her kale salad while tuning out her friend's latest complaints about her ex-husband. She loved Sharon and she wanted to be supportive but she'd heard it all, via text and email and myriad phone calls, since she'd left Los Angeles ten years ago. Anyway, the couple at the next table might not be having fun, but Gillian was enjoying the view. The guy had caught her eye the moment he walked into Rustic Canyon's back room, trailing the attractive blonde. What was this woman's problem? The food here was supposed to be the best in town. The wine list was excellent. Her date was drop-dead gorgeous. In a city full of movie actors and male models and rock star wannabees, that was saying something. That silky, dark brown hair, those beautiful hazel eyes, the hint of a five o'clock shadow on his jawline that Gillian was aching to caress. He was tall but not too tall, maybe six feet or little bit over, broad-shouldered but with a lean build and legs that went on forever. His tanned complexion had the requisite lines of a man in his late forties or early fifties who'd spent a lot of time in the open air. And those lips looked so—kissable. Since his date wasn't interested, maybe Gillian should offer to take him off her hands. 

_God, Gillian. Calm down._ It hadn't been that long since she'd had sex. Had it? Mr. Gorgeous wasn't an actor, she was certain of that, but he did look oddly familiar. Where had she seen this guy before? As cute as he was, you'd think she could remember that.

"Gillian. You haven't heard a word I've said since those two sat down," Sharon said under her breath. 

She winced. "I know, and I'm sorry..." Gillian caught the flash of metal out of the corner of her eye. Stunned, she watched as Blondie pulled a small handgun out of her clutch purse along with some cash, which she left on the table. It looked like one of those tiny Smith and Wesson 638s. Why the hell would someone like her be carrying something like that into a place like this? Fuck this stupid country and its stupid motherfucking gun laws. Oblivious to her audience, Blondie closed the purse and eased the gun into position under the table. Gillian strained to hear what she was saying but all she could make out over the restaurant din were three words: "gun," "David" and "get up." Okay, that was four words.

"Crystal! What are you doing?" The poor guy looked more dazed than scared. He stood up slowly, his eyes focused on the gun.

Gillian groaned inwardly. Of course her name would be Crystal. 

"Shut up, David," Crystal hissed.

Crystal wasn't exactly a criminal mastermind. Who in their right mind pulls a gun on someone in a crowded restaurant in front of dozens of potential witnesses.

Whether she was crazy or stupid—or both—the woman was dangerous. Gillian was going to have to think of something fast. Really fast. They were in the back room of a crowded restaurant on a Saturday night. The lighting was subdued, the tables were packed closely together, everyone was drinking and the conversation was flowing as freely as the alcohol. Everyone was staring at their date—or their smartphone. Gillian had her weapon with her but she couldn't confront the woman here. It was too risky. "Sharon. Call 9-1-1." 

Sharon looked scared and confused. "Gillian. What is going on... "

Gillian shook her head. "Just make the call." She'd cased the restaurant solely out of habit as soon as she'd arrived. Though the restaurant was good-sized, there were only two entrances—one facing Wilshire and one that exited through the kitchen into the parking lot behind the building. Crystal would be going out the front door, so Gillian would go out through the back and stop her from doing—whatever it was she wanted to do to David. 

"Okay." Sharon's voice was shaky but she already had her phone out and was dialing.

Gillian watched as David weaved slowly between the tables, his captor following behind, one perfectly manicured hand keeping him close, the other on her gun. Her eyes fell on the twenties Crystal had left on the table. It was odd that she'd left money for the bill. It meant she was willing to risk jail time for assault and kidnapping—but not theft. Weird and getting weirder. Welcome to LA.

"Tell the operator there's a woman pointing a gun at her date," Gillian said. "I'm going to take the back entrance and try to head her off." She stood, mentally calculating the distance and time she needed. "Stay down and don't draw attention to yourself." Sharon had turned pale, but she was still clutching her phone, waiting for the 9-1-1 operator to pick up. She nodded gamely.

Briskly, Gillian threaded her way toward the kitchen. Someone in the front of the restaurant screamed, "Oh God! She's got a gun!" 

Hearing the sound of expensive glassware breaking behind her, she pushed open the door reading "Staff Only" and pulled out her I.D. It was a bluff. She had no real authority here, but the police were still minutes away. She was that poor man's best chance of getting free. She stood tall and fearless. "I'm Gillian Anderson, with Tactical Executive Security." 

  


Even before the woman had pulled a gun on him, this was the worst blind date he'd ever been on. Crystal MacCluie was nothing like her Welcome, Eros profile. Oh, she was attractive enough, but she was not terribly bright and had no sense of humor whatsoever. Worst of all, she had a very superficial understanding of bee husbandry. When David tried to explain that humans had been bee keepers for ten thousand years, and that until very recently it had been a mutually beneficial relationship, the woman became belligerent. 

"I thought you were one of us! I thought you were different!" What was she talking about? Who is "us"? He tried to reason with her but she cut him off. "Exploiter!" and "Vermin!" had been his reward and those were the least offensive epitaphs. She finished up with, "You goddamned motherfucking academic asshole!" That last one had hurt, especially since he had left that life behind to become a humble beekeeper.

Now it had become the worst blind date in the history of internet dating. If he survived the rest of the evening, the first thing he was going to do when he got home, after he called his kids and told them how much he loved them, was cancel his account at Welcome, Eros and demand a refund.

Woozily he stumbled forward, Crystal's gun at his back, her hand twisting his arm painfully backward. He thought he heard a scream, but he couldn't be sure. He hadn't had that much to drink, only a couple of glasses of wine, but his ears were buzzing and his vision was blurred. Had she drugged him? That...fiend! No. Wait. Was that the right word for a female demon? Demon-ess? That didn't sound right either. Not a succubus. There wasn't going to be any sex happening here, at least none that was voluntary, he was certain of that. He shuddered. What was she planning to do with him? 

"Keep going," Crystal snarled. David obeyed to the best of his ability, lurching around the tables in the dimly lit, crowded restaurant, going from the back room through the central dining area until at last they were near the front door. He'd forgotten how big this place was. It felt like they'd been walking for ages. The owner, Monica, stepped out from behind the bar, looking concerned. David had helped Monica and her husband Stephan relocate a swarm of bees from their backyard six months ago.

"Is everything okay here?" she asked, looking first at David and then over at Crystal. 

"We're fine," he choked out, as Crystal gave his arm another twist. He was not fine. He was fucked. As Crystal pushed him through the door, he thought he heard glass breaking. In the far distance, someone yelled, "She's got a gun!" Good observation, just a little too late.

He'd gotten there early, parked his truck in the back lot, and walked around to the entrance to wait for Crystal. When he saw her find a parking spot right in front of the restaurant, he'd told Crystal that her parking karma was phenomenal. Now it seemed obvious that the universe was playing a sick joke. He watched fuzzily as she used the remote to pop open the trunk of her vehicle. "Get in," she instructed, "and hurry up!" There was no way he was going to fit in the trunk of a goddamned Prius. "Don't make me use this," she warned, waving the gun. "It looks small but it shoots regular sized bullets and at close range, I know I can't miss."

"Why can't I ride in the car with you?" David moaned. What the fuck was she doing?

"Don't be ridiculous." Crystal was scornful. "I can't hold you at gunpoint and drive, not in Saturday night traffic! Now get in!" He did, awkwardly folding his legs up into fetal position, and hugging himself tightly. As the trunk lid closed, enveloping him in darkness, he forced himself to stay conscious. 

He was still alive, for now. And, dammit, he was going to figure a way out of this mess.

A tall man in immaculate chef's whites and toque stepped from behind the stove, and peered at her credentials. "I'm sorry, Ms. Anderson, but you can't be back here. It's against health regulations." 

"There is a situation in progress. One of your guests has been kidnapped at gunpoint," she said, calmly stepping into the steamy kitchen. "The police have been called but I'm afraid they won't get here in time. Where is your exit door?"

"Through here, Ma'am," said one of the waitstaff.

Gillian followed her out the kitchen into a narrow hallway, and opened the back door. Quickly she scanned the small parking lot. Empty. There was no way Crystal would have been able to walk from the front door to this lot and drive off—not in that short amount of time. It seemed unlikely, but she could have found street parking near the restaurant. Cursing her four-inch platform heels, Gillian ran to the front of the building. There was Crystal--climbing into the front seat of a white Prius four door. But the passenger seat was empty. Where the fuck was David?

"Stop right there, Crystal!" Gillian commanded, running toward the car. Crystal ignored her, slid into the driver's seat and turned the ignition key. Reaching the Prius, Gillian pounded on the driver's window, displaying her I.D. It had worked in the restaurant. "Turn this off and exit the vehicle immediately! Keep your hands where I can see them," Gillian added when she spotted Crystal's hand reaching for the gun she'd left in plain view on the passenger seat. Well, she certainly wasn't a pro. Ignoring Gillian's command, Crystal put the car into gear and took off the parking brake. Shit. Gillian didn't want to pull on her. Maybe she could talk her down. "You aren't going to get away with this. Look around you. There are too many witnesses. The police are on their way. It's over." 

Crystal glared at Gillian. Gillian held her gaze. Finally, Crystal turned off the engine. "Take the keys out of the ignition and get out of the car," Gillian ordered. Sullenly, Crystal obeyed. "Give me the keys. Put your hands on the top of the car and keep them there." 

"I don't know who you think you are but you can't just walk up to someone and start ordering them around," she complained, handing Gillian an oversized key-ring. Along with the remote and an assortment of keys, there was a small red and yellow button attached with the familiar McDonald's logo. The words, "McDogshit" was printed over the golden arches. Lovely. 

"Oh, really? Because I thought I just did. Now what have you done with David?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Crystal said airily. She stood with her arms folded over her chest, and one hip jutted out. At least she wasn't trying to get away. Gillian had not dressed for foot pursuit.

A small crowd had gathered in front of the car: some patrons of the wine bar, a few random pedestrians, even a homeless man with a shopping cart had stopped to watch. Several had their phones out and were surreptitiously filming the drama. Great. Well, evidence was evidence, no matter the source.

"She put him into the trunk," the homeless man said. 

"Yeah, I saw it too," one of the bystanders agreed. 

"Thanks for the tip." Gillian popped open the trunk. Inside David was all scrunched up and looked absolutely miserable. He was much too tall to fit comfortably into that tight a space. Suddenly, she remembered where she'd seen David before. A few years ago, he'd done a series of videos about some problem with honeybees and colony-collapse and posted them on YouTube, entitled "The Naked Truth." They'd been extremely popular, Gillian recalled, perhaps because he'd filmed them wearing nothing except a strategically placed teacup. She'd been sent the link by someone in the States. One of them had gone viral and had over five million views. She couldn't remember much about what he'd said about bees—but the man looked just as good out of his clothes as he did in them. 

Just as a police car finally arrived at the scene, Gillian reached in and grabbed David's hand. "Let's get you out of there, David. This is no place for an entomologist." 

In his drugged state, David wasn't sure who was standing over him when the lid of the trunk opened up. It was a woman, but it wasn't Crystal. Though she looked vaguely familiar, he was positive they'd never been introduced. This woman, whoever she was, wouldn't be easy to forget, with her long blonde hair, huge blue eyes, an elegant Roman profile and lips the color of ... lips. He couldn't be more specific than that, not until he was more awake. 

"You're really pretty," he blurted out. She smiled, which encouraged him. With the pretty lady's help, he struggled out of the car, barely managing to avoid hitting his head. He didn't think he'd been in there long but his back was stiff and his neck hurt too. Still woozy from whatever Crystal had dosed him with, David swayed, putting his arm around his rescuer's shoulder as she grabbed his waist. "I don't feel so hot," he said. It was true. He felt awful. 

"I know. We need to have you examined by a doctor. My name is Gillian. David, the police are here. They're going to want you to go down to the station and make a statement."

The police officer looked around the assembled crowd. "Someone want to fill me in on what's going on here?"

"I can, although it might be a good idea to call the paramedics first," Gillian said. "David is having a hard time remaining upright."

The policemen took out a small notebook. "And you are?" 

"Gillian Anderson. I'm an agent with Tactical Executive Security. My I.D. is in my bag, but I'm afraid my hands are full at the moment." 

"I can see that. And are you the person who first called 9-1-1 about an alleged abduction?"

Sharon raised her hand. "That would be me. I was having dinner with Gillian at a table across from that woman. Gillian saw her pull the gun on this man and told me to call 9-1-1."

"That's a lie!" Crystal said indignantly. 

The officer held up a hand. "Lady, you need to pipe down. You'll get your chance." 

"She did so have a gun. I saw it," said the homeless man. 

"That gun is still on the seat of your fucking Prius," said Gillian. "Sorry, Officer." David thought she sounded impatient. He should—he should try to pull himself together. Instead, he began sliding to the ground. Sharon rushed to his side and helped Gillian ease him to the sidewalk. Gillian cradled his head in her lap, and began stroking his hair. He opened his eyes wider. She wasn't just beautiful, she was kind and brave, and had soft, cool hands. God, her hands felt good. _Whoa, David. You're flying high._ She was much prettier than Crystal, too.

"Okay, I guess we are going to need that ambulance." The policeman pulled out his phone and began texting.

"I got footage of the whole thing, Officer." A young man with a neatly trimmed goatee stepped out of the crowd and peered down at David. He held up his smart phone to the policeman. "I was in the bar and followed her out. She held the gun to his back, and threatened to shoot him unless he got into the trunk of her car. Do you want to see it?" 

"How many of you folks got this crime-in-progress on your smart phones?" the officer said wearily. A dozen hands went up. "Nobody tried to stop her, huh?"

The man with the goatee looked shocked. The hand holding the phone dropped to his side. "She had a gun."

"I stopped her," Gillian said under her breath. David tried to nod in agreement.

They all sounded very far away to David, like he was listening to a crime show on a TV in the next room. Perhaps the light was growing dim, because it was getting harder to see. Except, it was the middle of June. It shouldn't be getting dark this early. He grabbed at Gillian's hand.

"What is it, David?" She put her ear close to his lips. 

Her perfume smelled heavenly. Up close, her hair looked like threads of golden silk, almost halo-like. If he believed in guardian angels, which he most assuredly did not, he thought he could be forgiven for mistaking her for his. "Thank you for saving me," he managed to whisper before everything went black.

  



	2. Mountain Greenery

"You really didn't have to drive me home. They could've called me a cab," David repeated for what had to be the tenth time. 

Gillian braked to a stop in front of the house and shut off the ignition. She knew she didn't have to do this—she didn't even know him—but for some reason, she couldn't let him out of her sight. She gazed at him as the bright dome light faded into the softer glow from the full moon. He looked none the worse for wear. _Don't lie. He looks good enough to eat._ The thought made her blush. Thank God, it was the middle of the night and he couldn't see her coloring. Fortunately, all of the tests they'd run in the ER had been negative, except the toxicology. Crystal had given him a fast-acting sedative similar to Valium, according to what the doctor had told David. 

"It's not so easy to get a cab around here, is it? Not like New York or London." Getting to his house hadn't been a problem, not with David giving her directions. It was driving back to her hotel that was going to be tricky. She'd planned to spend the evening at Sharon's apartment but she'd called to let her know she wasn't coming. It was way too late to barge in there now. Her friend had two kids who'd be asleep and a dog whose bark could wake the dead. 

"Okay." He cleared his throat. "You know how to get back to Pacific Coast Highway?" 

"That won't be a problem." She'd driven all over Europe on her vacations, including the Alps and the Pyrenees after she'd first relocated to London. She could handle the Santa Monica mountains.

David shifted restlessly in his seat. "Shit. I didn't think about you having to drive back in the dark. " 

Gillian almost laughed aloud. Men were so adorable. No matter that _she'd_ just rescued _him_. Would he be reassured if she showed him her gun? 

As he rattled off a string of directions, Gillian interrupted, "You lost me at Tuna Canyon. Look. I'll just plug the address of my hotel into the rental's GPS. I'll be fine." 

David shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea. They aren't all that reliable up here. You could get completely turned around." 

"David, really..."

"Let me at least draw you a map and write down the directions to get you back into town," he urged. 

The police had Crystal in custody, so David wasn't in any danger from her, but it wouldn't hurt to check out the security measures he already had in place. Just in case. "Sure. A map sounds great," she said, stifling a yawn. "Sorry, I'm still a little jet-lagged." This was her fifth day in California, and she thought she would have adjusted by now. 

"And maybe I could make you a cup of coffee for the road?" he offered.

The clock on the dashboard said it was just after midnight. So, that's early Sunday morning in London, she thought. She could still manage to call her kids before she fell asleep. "Okay, but just one cup; otherwise I'll be up all night."

David smiled. "We wouldn't want that to happen." 

As they walked toward the house, Gillian stumbled slightly on the uneven brick pavers on the driveway. Immediately, David was at her elbow, steadying her. 

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I'm fine. That's what I get for wearing these shoes." She waved him off, wincing. Those damn platforms! She made sure to step more cautiously as they made their way toward the house. In the moonlight, she could make out a boxy shape with two stories, plenty of windows and a small front porch, but not much beyond that. He'd installed expensive brick pavers but no outdoor lighting? 

Fitting the key in the lock, he said, "I've been meaning to have someone come out and give me an estimate to replace those pavers. I thought they were a bad idea from the start." 

Whose bad idea were they, she wondered. Landscape designer? Girlfriend? Ex-wife?

He held open the door with one arm and took hold of her hand with the other. "Just bear with me until we get past the entry. It's going to be pitch black but I don't want to disturb the hive."

Hive? She must have misunderstood. "Fine." Holding his hand wasn't exactly a hardship. He steered her into the living room and hit a wall switch. Soft light from a wall sconce illuminated the room. "Wow." The place didn't look like much from the outside, but the inside told a different story.

"It wasn't me," he said in response to her look of approval. "My ex-wife, Téa, did all the decorating." 

His expression looked pained, though only for a moment. He was still living in the house—so she must have left him. "It's wonderful." There were polished hardwood floors, a sectional and loveseat covered with dove gray fabric surrounding a large stone fireplace, with a French door on the left side and a wall of books on the right. There were plenty of colorful throw pillows, a few hand thrown pieces of pottery, several good reading lamps. The open-beamed ceiling gave the room a spacious feeling. She didn't recognize the artist but the landscape over the fireplace was very fine. The other walls were empty, and the coffee table looked like it came from Pier One; except for that, she couldn't have done better herself.

He nodded. "Thanks. How do you take your coffee?" 

"Black, two sugars. Thank you." She walked to the French doors, ran her hands over the frame, and inspected the door knobs. That lock could be picked by a third grader. She'd need to look them over to be certain, but she'd bet the locks on the windows were pieces of crap, too. He didn't have a decent fence or even a dog, and he was miles from the nearest police station. His house was up in the mountains, off the main highway, down a private unpaved road. This was a low crime area, from what she remembered. Maybe that was why he had no security system installed. 

"There's no view, if that's what you're looking for. It's prettier to look at in the daytime when you can see the trees." He had a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. "Here you go. Shall we sit?" He'd taken his jacket off, and removed his shoes and socks. He had beautiful toes. Gillian swallowed hard. His shirt had been hanging loosely over his jeans since they'd left the ER. He looked adorably rumpled. 

She smiled, took the cup from him and settled herself on one side of the sofa. After a moment of hesitation, he sat down on the other side.

She took a sip. Not bad. Not great but not instant at least. "So, I have to ask. How did you become acquainted with Ms. Crystal?"

He looked embarrassed. "An internet dating service called Welcome Eros. We had some common interests, or so I thought."

"You don't seem like the Welcome Eros type." For that matter, neither did Crystal. Both of them were too good-looking, for one thing. Crystal bore a striking resemblance to Mira Sorvino. David looked like he'd walked off the cover of _GQ_. Maybe that was unfair, she thought. LA was a big town, and she knew that it got harder to meet people as you got older, became absorbed in work and family routine. 

He shrugged. "I don't like bars. I don't meet many single women through my work. It seemed like it was worth a shot. I don't want to sound ungrateful, but what's your interest in all this?"

It was a reasonable question. She took another sip of coffee. "My job involves keeping high profile people safe from those who would cause them harm. A woman claiming to be from an internet dating site took you hostage at gunpoint. If I hadn't intervened, you might still be in that trunk on your way to who knows where." 

"That's true." He looked troubled.

"Look, I don't want to scare you but we don't know what she wanted from you. We do know that it was premeditated. Maybe she was acting alone." She paused for effect. "Maybe she was part of a larger plot." He'd been staring down at his coffee while she talked but now she had his attention. "But you're right, it's none of my business. You're not a client. If you'd rather, I can finish the coffee and be on my way, let the police handle things from here."

"No, go ahead. Hit me with your best shot, Agent Anderson."

His smile was distracting but Gillian forced her attention back to the problem at hand. "Do you have any idea why someone would want to kidnap you?" Sometimes it was best to be direct.

A shadow passed over his face. "I honestly have no idea why she did what she did." Maybe he believed that answer, but that wasn't the question. No matter. She could run with it.

"No one does something without a reason. You were arguing with her in the restaurant," Gillian probed gently.

He looked baffled. "I—I don't remember that. Everything after, well, after I arrived at the restaurant is pretty fuzzy. Before that, we exchanged a few emails. We talked once on the phone to arrange the date. I liked her voice." 

"You agreed to meet in a public place, a popular restaurant with a lot of people around you. Do you have any idea how she was able to..."

"Slip me a mickey?" He sounded rueful. "I don't. I don't even recall what I ordered." He paused, then looked directly at her. "I remember that your face was the last thing I saw before I blacked out." 

This was not helpful, plus it reminded her of how great she'd felt with his head in her lap. Oh God. She was going to start blushing again. This would not do. "The fuzziness is from the drug that is still in your system. Your memory will come back," she encouraged. At least she hoped it would. 

He set down his coffee on the end table. "The detective said he'd call me Monday. What if I still can't remember what happened? What do I say?" 

"You'll tell them the truth--as best you can recall." He sounded so lost—and looked so sexy at the same time. God, what was wrong with her? This man had been _traumatized_ and all she could think about was how she wanted to touch his hair again to see if it was as silky soft as she remembered.. "Give yourself some time," she offered. Was that the best she could do? Maybe she ought to try another tack. "What's your line of work now?"

"I'm a beekeeper. I have a PhD in entomology. My research was...well, that doesn't matter. I don't do that anymore. I'm an educator. I give lectures on urban beekeeping to interested groups."

Should she mention that she'd seen his YouTube videos? "I gathered that, from the bits of conversation I overheard between you and Crystal," she said finally.

He looked at her quizzically. "Really? All that from eavesdropping on a casual conversation?" 

"Not so casual, since it ended up with you in the trunk of her car." Shit. Maybe she should have gone with the "Naked Truth" vids after all. "I'm sorry. That was unkind of me. I mean, threat assessment is what I do for a living and I totally did not see that coming." _Because I was too busy staring at your gorgeous face and fantasizing about what was underneath those nicely broken-in designer jeans._

"So back at the restaurant, you were—assessing me for—threats?" he said, looking at her slyly. "So, what do you think, Agent Anderson. Exactly how dangerous am I?" Somehow, while she was distracted by—threat assessment—he'd closed the distance between them. He was sitting right beside her, leaning back on the sofa, gazing at her. His hands were free and his lips were right there, and dammit, he'd rolled up his shirtsleeves. His forearms were perfect: tanned and muscular with just the right amount of hair. All she needed to do was put down her coffee and lean in and—

This was a bad idea. Or maybe it was a very good idea. Perhaps a change in subject was in order. "You were going to draw me a map with some directions." Her voice sounded too high. She wasn't nervous, dammit. Just...horny. 

And now he was smiling again. "That was how I lured you in here, wasn't it?" He got up and walked back into the kitchen. She used the brief respite to collect herself. This was ridiculous. He wasn't that good-looking! He returned carrying a piece of paper and a pencil. "Here you go."

"Thanks." She was wrong. He was that good-looking, plus he was exactly her type: handsome, wickedly smart and—yes—dangerous. He was hiding something. She could sense it. People did not get abducted at gunpoint for no reason. But if he wouldn't tell her the whole truth, she couldn't help him. Anyway, he wasn't her client. She was on vacation and due back in London mid-week and, shit. She needed to get back to the hotel and call her kids. She set down her coffee and stood up. He looked disappointed. Well, so was she. But it was late, she was tired, and besides, he was still under the influence. She didn't want to take advantage of the man.

"I'll walk you to your car."

"I think I can see myself out. But, thank you." 

He shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't trip. No entryway light, no outside lighting, remember?"

"Yeah, what's that about?" She was going to get to hold his hand again. Her libido was dancing a little jig.

He smiled again. "I have a demonstration hive set up in my hallway. I use it when I give talks to schools and at county fairs. They're settled down for the night. If you come back in the daylight, I'll show them off to you. "

"I'd like that," she found herself saying. He had bees living _in his house_?

"Great. Have breakfast with me tomorrow at Rustic Canyon. It's the least I can do to thank you. They do a great Sunday brunch," he coaxed. 

"You'd really go back there?" In her experience, victims did not want to go back to the scene of the crime. 

David shrugged. "Why not? It's not the fault of the restaurant. They do have great food, and anyway, I have to go back to get my truck from their lot. Afterward, if you come up to my place with me, I can show you around the operation."

She shouldn't agree to this. She was supposed to be getting a full day of shopping in, followed by a soak in her tub, a massage and a pedicure at the hotel spa. Unbidden, images of his gorgeous and nearly naked body appeared in her mind's eye. Fuck it. She could reschedule the pedicure—and she didn't really need to go shopping. "What time do you want me?" she said, remembering to breathe. 

He grinned. "How does 11:00 o'clock sound to you?" 

When she got back to the hotel, she was going to have to get out her vibrator—and search YouTube for that damn video. After all, it might contain evidence. "The Naked Truth" indeed.


	3. Where or When

It was a good thing David had biked down to Santa Monica this morning. A multi-car collision had left Pacific Coast Highway backed up in both directions. If he'd had the truck, he'd have gotten stuck in traffic and probably ended up arriving late to his date with Gillian. On the bike, he was able to bypass the entire mess and get to the restaurant in plenty of time to stow his bike in the truck, and get cleaned up a bit.

Of course, if he had the truck, that would be because he hadn't gotten into the mess with Crystal, which in turn would mean he'd never met Gillian. He couldn't remember when he'd felt this kind of attraction before, if ever. It was almost worth the whole being drugged and abducted at gunpoint business. And unless he'd forgotten how to read the signals, she was attracted to him, too. The only problem with pursuing it was that she wasn't local. He'd been too out of it last night to ask the right questions, like where she was from, and how long she'd be staying. 

He was relieved to see his truck was right where he'd left it, parked in the lot behind Rustic Canyon. He stopped alongside the vehicle and dismounted. In one practiced motion, he lifted the bike into the back of the pickup, shifted it into the bike carrier and locked it securely in place. After removing his backpack, he unlocked the cab. He took off his helmet and set it on the floor of the cab. Taking a quick glance around the parking lot, he pulled off his jersey, gave it a sniff, grimaced, and threw it into the truck bed. He unzipped the top of the pack and pulled out a plaid button-down shirt and slipped it on. Thank God for the invention of cycle-to-work pants, otherwise he'd be sitting in the truck struggling out of his bike shorts. He put his wallet into his pants pocket, shoved the pack under the seat, and locked the truck back up. 

Heading to the restaurant, he was startled to see a familiar looking car, and a dark blonde head ducking down out of sight a couple of rows over. After a moment of panic, he remembered that Crystal was still in lockup, so he wasn't being stalked. Anyway, Crystal drove a white Prius, he remembered. This was a much bigger car, in navy. Was it Gillian? How long had she been there? The exhibitionist in him was getting turned on by the idea of her sitting there, watching him undress. Should he confront her? Not yet, he decided. He'd let her think she'd gotten away with it—for now. Resisting the urge to adjust himself, he made himself look away and walked purposefully toward the restaurant. It was a good thing he'd left his shirt untucked. 

At the edge of the building, he stopped short. The parking spot where Crystal's Prius had been was occupied by another vehicle now. Her car had been towed and impounded as evidence, he imagined. His heart started pounding and he began feeling light-headed. Gillian had been right. Coming back to the scene of his abduction was doing weird things to his head. Well, he was here now and he needed to get past this. At least the anxiety had taken care of his erection. He thought he heard steps behind him, but before he could react, there was a gentle touch on his arm. 

"David. How are you doing?" 

It was Gillian. God, he was happy to see her. She was wearing a low cut white t-shirt that hugged her curves in all of the right places and black jeans, ditto. She was sexy as hell and a marvelous distraction from his troubles, but it was more than that. He liked her. She was smart, used to taking charge and utterly fearless. But she had a nurturing side, too. Those qualities plus her startling physical beauty made for a combination that he found irresistible. But he needed to play it cool. Technically, this was their first date.

"Hey. I'm doing fine, I think." He hesitated. It wouldn't do any good to pretend with her—she'd see right through his act. "You were right. Being back here is doing a number on my head. I still can't remember what happened, which makes it even more more disconcerting."

She looked up at him, studying his face. "There's no reason to put yourself through this. We can go eat somewhere else." Her forehead got this cute little crease in it when she frowned. 

He didn't remember her being this short. Her head didn't even come up to his shoulder. He stole a look at her feet, and stifled a smile. Instead of the four-inch platform sandals, she had on the smallest running shoes he'd ever seen on an adult—Nikes covered in every color of the fluorescent rainbow. 

She seemed to like holding his hand last night, so he decided to risk it. She didn't pull away, just smiled warmly and gave his hand a squeeze. "Sure," he said, relieved. "Do you have a place in mind?" 

She looked thoughtful. "There's a place on Pico and 29th where I used to go, Rae's Diner. I wonder if it's still open."

"Why don't we go find out?" Should he offer to drive? Nope, it looked like she was taking him to her car. "So, you're driving?"

That stopped her short. "Does that bother you?" she said carefully.

"No, not at all. I just figured since you weren't from around here, you might rather I did." Reluctantly, he let go of her hand to head to the passenger side. 

"I know how to get there." The door locks sprang open and they got in simultaneously. It was a roomy vehicle, a Ford Taurus—and he couldn't remember riding in it last night. God, he must have been really out of it. 

"You were pretty out of it," Gillian agreed. Shit. Did he say that out loud? "But you seem much clearer today."

He watched as she pulled out of the lot onto Wilshire and made a quick left onto 11th. "Yeah, I don't feel as spacey." Getting on the 10 heading east was not the route he would taken but somehow she'd covered the distance and maneuvered the Taurus into a metered space on the north side of Pico all in less than—he glanced at the display on the dashboard—seven minutes.

"You must know this area well," he commented, following her into the restaurant. She didn't reply, just smiled a Mona Lisa smile. Rae's was an old-time diner, with a big neon sign, a long horseshoe counter and small red vinyl booths along the window. Gillian walked straight to the back and settled into one of the booths, on the side facing the door. David sat down across from her. He liked being able to see who entered, too, but he supposed it made sense for her to be on lookout. Jesus, listen to him. He was still on edge. 

"What's good here?" he said, perusing the breakfast menu. It was refreshingly basic.

"The coffee is weak but the orange juice is fresh-squeezed. The biscuits with gravy are really excellent, if you like that sort of thing." She looked up from her menu. "I don't know what you like. The pancakes are good. I don't usually eat meat but I always break down and get the bacon waffle when I'm here," she said, looking sheepish.

"You folks need another minute?" The waitress was old school. No "Hello, my name is Mark. Let me tell you about the specials" here. Just straight to business. 

"I can order," David said. Gillian nodded in agreement. The waitress was looking at him expectantly. "Uh, I'll have the vegetable omelet, with biscuits and gravy. And a large orange juice."

Just as she'd said, Gillian ordered the bacon waffle, plus coffee and a small orange juice. "We must have gotten here just in time. There's a line now," David said. He watched the waitress put their order in, then turned back to face Gillian. 

"We got here after the family crowd but before the folks hungover from partying," she said. After taking a sip from her coffee, she made a face. "Ugh. Tastes like dishwater. Just how I remembered it."

"So which group did you belong to when you were a regular here, the families or the party people?" David asked.

Gillian fell silent. "Neither, really. I used to come here with my partner," she said finally.

_Partner._ That word had many meanings, David mused. He was about to ask what it meant to her when the waitress arrived with the food. "That was fast." The omelet looked just okay, but the biscuits and gravy looked incredible. He picked up his fork and took a bite. God. How had he never heard of this place?

"They're good, huh?" Gillian said, digging into her bacon waffle. 

"Yeah," David said. "Really good." For several glorious minutes he forgot about everything except how delicious something as simple as biscuits and gravy could taste. The orange juice was sweet and acidic and full of pulp, just the way he liked it. Even the omelet was better than it looked at first glance, fluffy and filled with spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and caramelized onions. 

Finally, he came up for air. Gillian was dabbing delicately at her lips with the paper napkin, looking amused. "You must have been hungry," she observed. "You practically inhaled those biscuits and gravy." 

"I was. Except for a Power Bar and some coffee this morning, this is all I've eaten since...I don't know, maybe lunch yesterday." David set down his fork. She hadn't said anything more about her partner. In fact, she hadn't divulged much of anything personal about herself. Of course, neither had he. Maybe he should approach the subject indirectly. "Is the food as good as you remembered?" 

"Pretty close." There was that half smile again. She was playing it close to the vest, which could be signaling disinterest but he'd swear it wasn't. She seemed attracted to him. He was definitely attracted to her. She was playing with a strand of her hair and fiddling with the buttons on the tiny sweater she'd slipped on before they entered the restaurant. The cut of her t-shirt displayed just enough cleavage that he had to keep reminding himself not to stare. So it was mutual attraction. He could work with that. 

He shifted in his seat so he could look at the exit. "There's still a line to get in here. Maybe we should pay the check and leave?"

"Sounds like a plan," Gillian said. "Can I give you some money toward that?"

He drained his juice glass, and picked up the bill. At just over twenty bucks including the tax, breakfast still cost half what he would have paid most places. "Nope. I invited you to breakfast, remember?" 

That earned him a real smile. "I do," she said. God, he wouldn't have believed it possible but she looked even prettier when she smiled. 

When he held out his hand, she took it and let him lead the way, as they walked single-file through crowd at the doorway. Man, he had it bad. Just the touch of her hand was enough to set his heart racing. The low morning clouds had burned off; the bright sunlight made him squint and pull his sunglasses out of his shirt pocket. It was perfect timing. The drive back to his house would be spectacular. He could give her the grand tour, show off his place. Afterward, they could sit on the deck, enjoy the view, have a glass of wine, get to know each other a little better. Maybe a lot better. 

"Hey, David. Over here!" 

Shit. He recognized that voice. He did not want to do this. Maybe he could ignore the man and just keep walking toward the car. 

"Hey! David! It's Jesse!" 

Gillian inclined her head and squeezed David's hand. "Someone's trying to get your attention," she murmured.

"I know that," he said in a sharper tone than he'd intended. He squeezed back and tried to smile. No fucking way was he going to get into it with that asshole, not here. 

"David!" 

He could hear the sound of footsteps following close behind. It was no use trying to get away. Reluctantly, he stopped and turned back to face the music. 

"Oh, hey. Jesse. I didn't see you back there." A blatant lie, exactly the sort of pandering to social convention that David loathed. Jesse was alone, which was unusual. He liked to travel with his posse.

"Now, Professor. Did you think I was gonna just let you walk off without saying hello?" Jesse said, using his fake Mister Nice Guy voice. He next turned his attention to Gillian. "I don't believe we've been introduced." 

He might as well get it over with. "Gillian Anderson, this is Jesse Silberman. We...used to work together." He could almost block out the sound of them exchanging the usual pleasantries. Almost.

"We need David back on the job." Though Jesse was speaking to Gillian, his gaze never left David's face. "There's a project that's very important to the company's future ..."

"Sorry, but my dance card is full," David said.

"...with a deadline looming," Jesse continued as if David hadn't spoken. "I hope he'll reconsider our offer. The consequences... " 

"Jesse, you know that's not going to happen." Why couldn't this guy take no for an answer? 

David felt Gillian squeeze his hand. She put her other hand up to her head. "David, I think I feel a migraine coming on." She pulled her hand away, reached into her shoulder bag and started fumbling through it. "Damn. I don't have any pills with me. I'm going to have to ask you to take me home."

"Of course." Without thinking he put an arm around her shoulder and touched her cheek. To his surprise, she didn't pull away, just leaned against him, smiling wanly. 

"Goodbye, Mr. Silberman," Gillian said. "It was nice meeting you."

"The pleasure was all mine. We'll be in touch," Jesse called out after them. 

"Don't bother," David muttered.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Gillian said in a low voice, "Don't react or turn around. Just keep walking to the car. What was that all about?"

David bristled. "I rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

She didn't reply, just nodded as if confirming something. As soon as they reached the car, she handed him the keys. "I have a headache so you're driving." 

David opened her door, walked around to the driver's side and got in. 

"They're still watching us, you know," she added, pulling down the visor and fiddling with her hair. 

"They?" What was she talking about? "Jesse was alone."

"No, he wasn't. There was a man sitting on the stairs by the barbershop and another lurking near the entrance of the restaurant. They had eyes on us the entire time you two were talking."

Shit. "I, I didn't know that." What the hell was going on? He turned on the ignition, eased the car out and headed back to Rustic Canyon. 

They didn't speak during the return trip. Well, that was on him: he had told her he didn't want to talk about it. He didn't know what to say, whether it was a good idea to tell her about his work with Silberman. He'd only done some consulting for the firm. The project itself was very hush-hush, and David hadn't clearance to know how all the pieces fit together. He had no sure proof of what his research was being used for, or who the client was. But he had his suspicions. Under no circumstances was he going back to work for Silberman, but he was worried. Thank God, Téa and the kids were far, far away. 

By the time they arrived back at the parking lot, David had made up his mind. Maybe running into Jesse was just an unfortunate coincidence, but his instincts told him otherwise. Something was going on, and there was no way he was getting Gillian mixed up in it. He pulled into the lot and stopped in back of his truck. He set the parking brake, left the car running and got out. Gillian exited the car and walked around to the driver's side. 

He handed her the keys. "So, I'll follow you back to your place?" she said. Her little frown wrinkles were back. He wanted to touch her face, smooth them away, tell her it was nothing, and that she was not to worry. 

"No. I'll be fine," he said, trying to keep his voice steady. Jesus, he was a shitty liar. 

She looked perplexed. "No, I meant--I thought I was coming back to your house. You were going to show me your bees..."

"I don't think that's a good idea." Her face fell. Damn. She deserved better than a brush-off. "I'm sorry." 

She put her hand on his arm and looked up at him. "David. If you tell me what's going on, maybe I can help you."

She could have no idea how much he wanted to say yes. "No, I'd better not. Thanks for the offer." 

She smoothed her face back into what he assumed was her professional mask. He was relieved that she wasn't going to argue with him. He was fresh out of excuses and just looking at her was weakening his resolve. Reaching into her handbag, she retrieved a business card. "Here. That's my cell number. I'm staying at the Miramar. If you have any problems, don't hesitate to call." 

He studied the card. Gillian Anderson. Agent, Tactical Executive Security Ltd. London. Paris. Sydney. _Difficulties mastered are opportunities won._ Churchill. So, she's an ex-pat. 

"Presumably Crystal's still behind bars, so I don't think she'll be bothering me again. But, thanks anyway." He hesitated. He didn't want to leave it like this. _I don't want you to go but I can't ask you to stay._ He looked down at the card again, then back at Gillian. This was killing him. He didn't want to push her away. 

As she gazed up at him, her expression softened. "This was fun," she said, extending her hand. He took her hand, and closed the distance between them. He wanted to remember everything: how soft her skin felt; the way her hair curled up in the damp marine air; that adorable mole above her upper lip. How she somehow made him feel safe and incredibly turned on at the same time. Casting caution to the wind, he raised her fingertips to his lips. The gesture brought a huge smile to her face. "So, you're a romantic. I suspected as much." 

He shrugged. Yeah, probably, he was. It hadn't exactly worked to his advantage. "Guilty as charged."

"Take care of yourself, David." Again, there was that half smile, as she slowly pulled her hand from his and stepped away. 

He leaned against his truck, watching as she drove out of the lot and headed down Santa Monica Blvd. When the car was out of sight, he took out his wallet and looked again at the business card she had handed him. _London. Paris. Sydney._ He wondered which city was her base of operations. She'd been out of his life less than two minutes and he was already regretting it. He'd let her go, convinced it was the right thing to do. But was it? God knows he'd made his share of bad decisions, but he might have just made the worst mistake of his life. 

He put her card back into his wallet and climbed into the truck. All was not lost. At least he'd gotten her number.


	4. Can't You Do a Friend a Favor

Gillian had never been dumped mid-date before. It was unpleasant. It was insulting. Damn him. Since she'd canceled her spa appointment to spend the day with him, and Sharon was working the rest of the weekend, David's unexpected departure had left her at loose ends. Gillian had to do something to get out of her head and stop thinking about him and his stupid problems. She needed soothing. She needed pampering. 

Fortunately, the hotel spa hadn't re-booked after her cancellation. The one hour massage, followed by a manicure and pedicure, helped take her mind off of David. Usually she did her own manicure, but today she'd relented and let the manicurist, Marta, paint her nails a pretty neutral shade. For her toenails, she'd chosen a bright red polish, "Come to Bed Red." 

"Do you have some special plans for tonight?" Marta inquired. She removed Gillian's right foot from the whirlpool bath, dried it with a small towel, and applied cuticle remover to her toenails.

"No, no special plans." She'd had plans, but now, thanks to David's—issues—she was looking forward to an evening of HBO in her room. "I did, but they fell through." 

Marta placed Gillian's foot back into the bath. "Oh, that's a shame." 

"Yes, it is," Gillian said. Well, what did she expect? Meeting someone for the first time in the trunk of their abductor's car wasn't exactly an ideal setup for romance. 

Afterward, Gillian lingered in the women's lounge, drinking green tea, snacking on fresh fruit and petit fours, and listening to the sounds of chirping birds, ocean waves and Indian sitar. Unfortunately, the repetitive New Age music was not helping her to relax or forget her earlier disappointment. She'd so looked forward to... seeing wherever it was his bees lived. Hives of some kind, she supposed. And the Santa Monica mountains were beautiful, even on the cusp of summer in the middle of a drought. 

The truth was she'd been hoping for more from David than a lecture on the logistics of beekeeping in Topanga Canyon. The man was smart. He was funny. And, that tantalizing glimpse she'd gotten in the parking lot of David's muscular upper torso and shoulders had made her wish she'd brought a spare pair of knickers. He was in better shape than most men half his age. She'd been looking forward to getting to know him...more intimately. 

"Ms. Anderson, we're closing in 15 minutes," the spa manager said, looking apologetic. "We'll be open again in the morning at seven. Guests of the Miramar may enjoy the lounge, whether or not they're receiving services that day," she added.

"Good to know," Gillian said. "Thank you." Could everyone tell she had nowhere better to be? Feeling disgruntled, she made her way back to the changing room, got dressed, and took the elevator to the penthouse. 

After weighing her options, she decided to eat dinner in her room. The additional cost wasn't enough to make her go downstairs to the restaurant or, worse yet, drive somewhere to eat. Usually she didn't mind dining solo, but this evening she felt the need to shield herself from the eyes of curious strangers. Maybe it was because she had anticipated dinner for two. Her thoughts drifted back to seeing David half-naked. She moved the vision to the bedroom, imagined running her hands over his chest, caressing his skin, reaching for his belt buckle. She groaned. This would not do. She had to stop obsessing about this man. No matter how attractive, he was still just a guy. A guy who lived in _Los Angeles_. Talk about geographically undesirable. She'd left this town behind ten years ago, and never looked back. Well, almost never.

Perhaps there was another reason for her mood. She'd been feeling unsettled since their breakfast at Rae's. It had been more than ten years since she'd last eaten there. Ten years since Greg's death. She didn't know why she'd suggested the diner to David, but going back there hadn't been as hard as she'd expected. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. Had she really put the past behind her at last? Maybe she'd just been too distracted by the guy who'd been sitting across from her to think about it.

Rae's diner had been their go-to place, somewhere to head to after work to wind down, somewhere to meet for breakfast before heading into headquarters. They liked the food, liked the atmosphere; Greg liked that he could name every movie that Rae's had ever appeared in. He was a film buff, so living in Tinseltown was his dream come true. That it was a big, important office of the Secret Service only made it better. He'd been in the Los Angeles Investigative Division for two years, two months and six days on the night he was killed. 

She flipped through the room service menu and sighed. There was no reason to replay those memories again, at least not tonight. 

After placing her order, she reached for the remote, but stopped before she'd switched on the set. She didn't want to watch Showtime or a rerun of _Law and Order_ or a movie on pay-per-view. What she wanted was to find out everything she could about that jerk who had ruined her date with David. Yes, David had refused to answer her questions, and yes, maybe it wasn't any of her business, but the run-in with Silberman was still buzzing around in her brain. Crystal McCluie was worth looking into as well, but at least she was in custody. Gillian decided to start with Silberman.

She opened her laptop and typed his name into the search bar. The public information on his LinkedIn profile didn't explain why this guy had David so spooked. The corporate website was no more helpful, though their logo, "Tomorrow's Answers, Today," had a certain grandiose ring to it. However, the website had a link to an article about Jesse Silberman that had appeared a couple of months ago on the business page in the Santa Monica Evening Breeze. Gillian clicked on the link and scanned through the article. As of January 1st, Silberman Industries was a wholly owned subsidiary of MegaCorp, the multinational corporation. Their slogan might as well have been, "We Own Everything, Including You." 

Near the end of the article, a quote from Silberman caught her eye. "We here at Silberman Industries are very excited to become a part of the MegaCorp family. We'll be continuing work on some ongoing contracts, well as starting a new and exciting project for their agribusiness division." 

Gillian considered the implications. David was a beekeeper now, but he was an entomologist by training. Maybe he'd been consulting on one of their "ongoing contracts"? But why was David so important? Why didn't Silberman just hire someone else? She tried to remember the conversation from the morning. He had said something to David about a project deadline, but she'd been more focused on keeping an eye on Silberman's two henchmen. She needed more information. And a better memory.

A sharp knock on her door interrupted her train of thought. "Room Service, Ms. Anderson." Reluctantly, she closed her laptop and headed to the door. 

"Would you like to be served here," said the waiter, nodding at the small table by the picture window. "Or out on the balcony, perhaps?" 

"The table is fine. Thank you." She glanced at his name badge. "Jeffrey." Neatly, he set out the covered dishes, place setting and beverage. After signing the bill, she handed it back to him. 

He looked at the slip of paper and smiled. "Let me know if there's anything else you need."

_Jeffrey, what I need isn't on the menu._

After Jeffrey left, she took off the lid of the smallest dish, selected a stuffed date and popped it into her mouth. She looked over at her laptop. Okay, why was she doing this again? There was no reason for her to be investigating anything. David had made it clear to her where things stood between them. She moved the dishes over to the trendy upholstered bench that was standing in for a traditional coffee table and picked up the remote. Clicking through the guide, she selected the least offensive movie, and settled herself on the sofa in front the big screen. If she managed to stay awake until midnight, she could call her kids. 

She missed the boys so much it was a physical ache. It wasn't the first time she'd left them for work, but it was the first time she'd traveled so far away. She'd always asked for assignments closer to her home in London. For this trip to Los Angeles, she'd made an exception because the client, a French designer whom she had worked with before, had asked for Gillian in particular. She and Mark had traded days so she could have some time to herself at the end of her assignment. 

"Treat yourself, Gillian," Mark had urged. "You deserve it." He meant it, too. She couldn't ask for a more devoted father for her boys. She was grateful that they'd managed to stay friends. 

When the client unexpectedly cut her visit short to return to France, Gillian's two day mini-break suddenly lengthened to a seven day vacation, which felt like too much of a good thing. Working in Los Angeles was one thing; a week with nothing to do but think about what she'd left behind—and why—was another. She'd thought about changing her ticket, going back early. When she'd accepted the assignment in Los Angeles, she'd known returning to the city might be a challenge. She finally decided she was done letting those memories control her life and would stay as planned. The only downside was that on Wednesday, she would have to move out of the penthouse suite that her employer had generously let her stay in for the duration of the contract and into the much smaller motel room that she'd reserved for her two remaining days in California. 

After she got settled into her room at the Seaspray Inn, she had made plans to visit the Getty Villa, which she'd never managed to get to despite living in L.A. for nearly ten years. Thursday she'd left open. On Friday night, she'd be heading back to London. Did she really want to waste the rest of her vacation worrying about a man who didn't want her help in the first place? Thinking about a man who walked out on her in the middle of their first date, for God's sake?

Whatever the reason, David had treated her shabbily. She deserved better. He knew where she was staying. She had given him her number. As far as she was concerned, the next move was his.

After watching one movie and dozing through the next, Gillian woke up long enough to talk to her boys before they headed off to Paris and Disneyland with Mark and the nanny. Having Mark for a father meant their kids would never want for anything, but it also meant the boys were in danger of being spoiled rotten. She blew them imaginary kisses and caught theirs, told them to have a good time, and that she'd see them soon. After she hung up, she managed to brush her teeth and run a washcloth over her face before she collapsed into bed.

She was dreaming when the cell phone woke her. The ring tone was her default so it couldn't be anyone she knew. Who the hell was calling her at—she peered blearily at the clock on the bedside table—two o'clock in the motherfucking morning?

She stumbled into the living room and found the phone where she'd left it on the sofa. "Hello?" she snapped. 

"Hi. It's David. I know it's late but you said I could call if..." His voice sounded low and muffled.

She rubbed her eyes and tried to focus. "What's wrong?" 

"I, I think someone is trying to break into my house." 

Considering two days earlier he'd been abducted at gunpoint, David sounded less panicked than she would have expected. "Listen carefully. I want you to do two things. First, hang up the phone, call 9-1-1 and tell them a robbery is in progress. Then, if you can, I want you to move to a room you can lock and barricade the door. Can you do those two things?" She'd fallen asleep in her yoga pants, which at least made getting dressed faster. Quickly, she slipped a sweater on over her camisole and looked around for her shoes. They were right where she'd left them, by the sofa.

"Yes. I've already called the police. But the sheriff's station is all the way in the Valley, out in Calabasas. It'll take them—"

"David. Have you moved to the locked room?" Gillian interrupted, grabbing her purse and keys and heading to the door. 

"Yes, of course," he said. He sounded miffed. "I'm in my bedroom. I locked the door as soon as I heard someone moving around downstairs." 

"Stay quiet and keep away from the windows. Don't come out until the police arrive. I'm on my way." God knows, she'd experienced first hand how quickly a robbery could turn lethal. But she'd suspected David was in some kind of trouble the moment she'd spotted those two goons back at Rae's. She should have listened to her instincts, pushed harder to find out what was going on. She only hoped that she wasn't too late.

The wait for the hotel's valet to bring her rental car was interminable. Even without traffic, the drive to David's place took nearly 30 minutes. Impatient as she was to reach him, she didn't want to risk getting in an accident on the twisting mountain roads or missing a turnoff. 

When she got to the property, she was relieved to see the houselights were on and a black-and-white Crown Victoria was pulled up on the driveway. After parking her car, she hurried toward the open front door. As she got closer, she could hear male voices: David talking with the officers, she assumed. There was a familiar humming sound coming from a vent in the side of the house that must lead to the observation hive in his entryway. It might have been her imagination, but to her ear, the bees sounded a little...agitated. She approached with caution, stopping a few paces back. 

"David? It's Gillian. Is it okay for me to come in?" There was no reply, but perhaps he couldn't hear her.

On her way in, she took a quick look at the doorway. The frame was intact and showed no obvious signs of having been tampered with. Taking a deep breath, she walked quickly until she was past the observation hive. When she reached the kitchen door, she spotted David seated at the far end of the dining table. To her relief, he looked exhausted but otherwise none the worse for wear. On the other side of the table, facing away from her, were two deputies from the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department. One was seated, holding a cold pack on his left hand. She wondered what that was about.

The uninjured deputy was conducting the interview. "Mr. Duchovny, do you have any idea what they might have been after?" He gestured toward the living room. "Did you have a flat screen in there?"

"No. I've never watched much TV."

"How about a computer? Fancy stereo equipment?" 

David just kept shaking his head. "I own a laptop but it was in the bedroom with me. They never made it past the stairway. Maybe you scared them off," he offered.

Or they'd never left. "Maybe they're still somewhere on the property," Gillian said.

The officer turned around, his eyes narrowing when he spotted her. "I thought you said you lived alone," he said to David. Then he turned back to Gillian. "Who are you?" 

"My name is Gillian Anderson. I work for Tactical Executive Security." 

"Yeah, and?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"May I show you my identification?" she asked politely. 

"Sure, knock yourself out." Gillian took her I.D. from her purse and presented it to the officer. He glanced at her face, down at the photo, then handed it back. "Is this man your client?"

"Gillian is a friend," David interjected before she could respond. "I called her right after I spoke with the 9-1-1 operator. I asked her to come here." 

Gillian blinked in surprise. _So now I'm his friend?_

The officer shrugged and put away his pen and notebook. "Fine by me. I'm Deputy Rodriguez, by the way. This is Deputy Beeman. We were in the neighborhood on another call when your friend called 9-1-1." He looked thoughtful. "If these crooks had half a brain, they'd have cleared out when we got here. But it couldn't hurt to take a second look around."

"If your colleague doesn't feel up to it, I can check the upstairs again," Gillian offered, looking at Deputy Beeman's hand. 

"I'm certain the intruders didn't get to the second floor," David said. 

"I'm fine. It hurt like hell but it's just a bee sting," Deputy Beeman said, looking at his hand and wincing. "At least it's not my gun hand." 

Deputy Rodriguez took out his flashlight and Deputy Beeman followed suit. "Okay. That's settled. We'll check the outside premises, your lady friend will check the upstairs closets. Then, unless you can think of another reason why someone would break into your house in the middle of the night, we're done here," said Deputy Rodriguez. 

As the officers walked toward the observation hive in the entryway, she heard Deputy Beeman say in a low tone, "I'm not gonna get stung again, am I?" His partner's reply was inaudible. 

As soon as the deputies left, Gillian turned to David. "I don't think you should stay in the house tonight."

David looked askance. "What? Why? You don't really think they're coming back here?"

"I don't know for certain but I think it's a possibility. What's stopping them? They could wait long enough for the sheriffs to be out of the way, say half an hour. There's plenty of cover, no fencing, no alarm system. They had no trouble getting in the first time." Gillian walked to the windows in the living room, double-checked the locks and pulled the blinds down. This attitude he was pulling could get him killed. 

"About that. I might have forgotten to lock up last night," David said. 

Gillian turned around and stared at him. At least he had the grace to look embarrassed about it. Also adorable, all rumpled and unshaven. _Focus, Gillian_. The botched abduction and this break-in attempt occurring so close together might be just a coincidence, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Now she just had to convince him.

"Anyway, I don't see what there is to talk about," David said. "Would I be any safer sleeping in my truck on the beach?" 

She could feel herself getting irritated, which wasn't going to help matters. David was a scientist. She just needed to present the evidence, and make her case. She took a few steps toward him. "David, please listen to me. This is my job. Threat assessment is what I do. Saturday night, someone tried to kidnap you at gunpoint. Tonight, you had some uninvited guests in your house. Two events like this happening in such short time—okay, maybe it's random chance, but what if it isn't?" She didn't bring up Silberman but David was a smart guy. He had to be wondering if there was a connection. 

"Gillian, I don't want to get you involved in this—" he began. 

_Damn it. This was bullshit._ In a flash, she closed the distance between them. "If you don't want me involved, why the fuck did you call me?" He had a stubborn, know-it-all look on his face and she didn't like it but she had to convince him. She placed her hand on his forearm. "Don't shut me out again. Please, let me help."

He shook his head and pulled away from her. "Fine. I'll pack a bag." He held his hands up in mock surrender. "Happy now?"

Dumbfounded, she watched him walk away. Did he want her help or not? For now, she needed to stay focused on the positive: at least he'd agreed to leave. Getting him away from this house was the right move, she reminded herself. She'd already left him to his own devices once and look at the result. After hearing him start up the stairs, she went back to work, checking the downstairs windows, closing the drapes, switching off the lights. 

David couldn't have been more than a few steps from the relative safety of his bedroom when the sound of gunfire stopped her in her tracks. "David, get down!" she shouted. The shots sounded like they'd come from behind the house. "Shit!" she hissed when she remembered the front door was still open. She ran to the door, closed and locked it. 

"Gillian! What's going on?" David yelled. She could hear his footsteps in the hallway upstairs. 

"David, go back to your bedroom!" She grabbed her phone and her gun out of her purse. As she dialed 9-1-1, she heard two more shots fired and someone shouting. She ran to the back of the house and peered out through the drapery.

Miraculously, after only a few rings, an operator picked up. Briefly, she described what she'd heard and seen. "There are two deputies outside, two civilians inside the residence—"

"Is anyone hurt?" the operator interrupted.

"I don't know," she told the operator. "We're okay. I don't know anything else." Damn it. She _should_ know. She should be out there, trying to stop it, not in here, feeling helpless. 

"Ma'am, I have another call coming in. Please hold."

"What!" Only in L.A. would an emergency operator put a caller who was reporting a possible shooting on hold. Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry. _Oh God. David_. She rushed back to the stairs. "David, are you okay?" she called out, trying to sound calm.

The operator came back on the line. "One of the deputies has been shot. The other is attempting to provide first aid. Do not leave the house. I repeat, do not leave. Help is on the way. Do you want me to stay on the line with you until they arrive?" 

"No, I—" Click. _Fuck_.

"Gillian?" David said, his voice coming from the top of the stairs.

_Thank God._ David was okay. _Now I just need to keep him that way._ "I'm here. Listen to me. One of the deputies has been wounded. Please, I need you to go back into the bedroom, lock the door, and stay away from the windows." She needed to figure out a location where she could watch both the front entry and the patio door, without worrying about him at the same time. 

"Wait a second. Aren't you coming up, too?" David sounded rattled, but she didn't have time to hold his hand right now. 

"No. I'm staying down here," she said. "Please, go back into your room." Maybe if she turned the oak dining table on its side, she could use it as a barricade?

"What are you going to do?" he said. "I don't want you to get hurt, too." 

The man was careless about his own safety, but he was still worried for her, she marveled, annoyed at the little flutter in her chest. "Don't worry. I'm armed. If anyone tries to come through that door, I'm going to shoot them." The sofa would be better at stopping a bullet, but it was too big for her to move. It would have to be the table. She pushed it into position and, with some effort, managed to flip it onto its side, with a resounding clunk. 

"Shit! Gillian! What the fuck was that?" 

"Your dining table. I flipped it on its side." He was scared—as he damn well should be—but he was talking to her from the hallway, which meant he still wasn't following her orders. If the intruders didn't shoot him, she just might. She had to make him see reason.

But David had other ideas. "The men who are after me—they've already shot a sheriff. I don't think they would hesitate to kill you." So someone _was_ going after him. He was going to have to level with her, as soon as they got out of this mess. "I'm coming down there," he announced.

_God, no._ "David—" 

Someone started pounding on the front door. "It's Deputy Beeman. Let me in! My partner's been shot." 

Gillian ran to the door and opened it, just as David arrived at the foot of the staircase. Deputy Beeman was standing on the front step, holding his partner in a fireman's carry. Together they maneuvered him into the house and laid him down on the kitchen floor, behind the overturned table. Rodriguez's face was drained of color and his right trouser leg was soaked in blood. Beeman was trying to apply pressure to his partner's wound with his bare hands, but the slippery mess wasn't making it easy. She started pulling open drawers. 

"What do you need?" David asked. 

"Dishtowels or anything to help stop the bleeding." David found them quickly and handed them to Beeman.

"Thanks. I used my belt for a tourniquet, but he's lost a lot of blood. The bastards got away, too." Deputy Rodriguez moaned when Deputy Beeman reapplied pressure to the wound. Beeman grimaced. "Hey, Manny. Hang on, okay? Help is coming."

"I'm going back upstairs for blankets and a first aid kit," David said. 

She hated the idea of letting him out of her sight but it made sense. Someone had to stand guard and she was armed. "Okay, but be careful and stay away from the windows." She turned to Deputy Beeman. "Your partner is going into shock. You take care of him. I can cover the entrances."

Beeman looked at her hard. "You sure you can handle this?"

"I am," Gillian said firmly. "What happened to your partner?"

"Manny was checking one of the outbuildings. I'd just finished with another one, maybe 20 yards away, when I heard the shots. They'd already taken off by the time I got to his side. I didn't even get a look at their faces." He sounded disgusted with himself. Gillian knew what that felt like. After Greg had been shot, she'd blamed herself for being unable to save him. She'd been carrying that guilt with her for years. 

Gillian forced herself back to the problem at hand. "You're convinced they're gone?" Whatever these men had come for, it was important to them, so important that they'd broken into an occupied residence to take it. So important that when their first attempt failed, they'd hung around, risking arrest, hoping for a second chance. It was obvious to her that these guys were not messing around. _Damn it. What was taking David so long?_

"I don't think they're waiting in the bushes for someone to come arrest them." _Yeah, well, you thought the same thing the first time around_ , she thought. 

David made it back safely, blankets in one arm and a first aid kit in the other. By the time the patrol cars and ambulance arrived, David and Deputy Beeman had bandaged Rodriguez's wounds and made him as comfortable as possible. The paramedics took charge of the wounded deputy. The investigating officers were mainly interested in what had happened to their colleague. After Deputy Beeman gave his statement and left for the hospital, Gillian and David each gave their version of events.

"It's going to take us some time to process this crime scene. You have somewhere else to stay, Mr. Duchovny?" said Deputy McCullough.

David looked at Gillian, his brow furrowed. Before he could say anything, she met his eyes and reached for his hand. "Gillian—" 

"Don't shut me out," she pleaded again. He might be right about the danger she was getting involved in, but it was her risk to take. "Let me help you." _Please, David._

He closed his eyes. "This is such a bad idea."

"I don't care." _I can't let you go again. Please don't make me._ She couldn't say the words aloud, not yet, not to him. 

He stepped closer and took her other hand in his. "David," she whispered. "You don't have to do this alone." 

"Mr. Duchovny? Did you hear me?" She'd forgotten Deputy McCullough was waiting for his answer. "I asked if you had somewhere else to stay?" 

Tenderly, he kissed her fingertips, just the way he had back in the parking lot of Rae's. "Yes, Deputy. It seems I do."


	5. My Heart Stood Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is now complete. The remaining chapters will be posted as quickly as I can format them. Thank you to the moderators at [WIP Big Bang](http://wipbigbang.livejournal.com/) for their patience. Thanks to my talented artist, Loracine, for the beautiful bookcover and page decorations.

After some tense negotiation, Gillian had agreed to take separate vehicles back into Santa Monica. His instincts told him he shouldn't leave his truck behind, even if he was going to pay through the nose to park it. He wasn't looking for an escape route, but it was still good to know he had one, should the need arise. Maybe he was being paranoid, or maybe he was starting to see things through her eyes, but if coincidences were just coincidences, why did they seem so contrived?

Driving down Pacific Coast highway, watching her behind him in the review mirror, he still wasn't convinced he'd done the right thing. A man had been shot in front of his house, because of the mess he'd made of his life. It could have been her, out there in harm's way. He didn't want anyone else to get hurt. But then he thought about the way she'd looked at him, the way he'd felt when she'd touched him—he couldn't have said no. She'd told him he didn't have to do this alone. He didn't want to push her away again.

Even without the craziness of last night, this was headed into uncharted territory, for him anyway. After he and Téa had separated, he'd steered away from seeing other women because he still loved her. He honored his vows in the hope they'd work it out and reconcile. Once the divorce was final, he'd stayed busy, working on the bee sanctuary and consulting for Silberman. The rest of his time he'd spent with his kids; at least he had until they'd left for New York with Téa. 

Without his children, David was lonely. Without his consulting work, there wasn't anything to distract him from feeling their absence. He'd always had a tendency to withdraw when he was depressed. To make matters worse, his closest friends and family were mostly on the East Coast. His one attempt at getting back into circulation, his Welcome Eros date, had been unsuccessful to put it mildly, except for one surprising and amazing event: it had brought Gillian into his life. 

She followed him to the city lot and waited while he parked his truck where she directed him: a space which was both visible from the street and in full view of the attendant's station. That was a neat trick. Then she drove them to the Miramar. Instead of taking a direct route, she passed by the hotel, cruised in the slow lane for a couple of miles, and doubled back. This was to make sure they weren't being followed, she explained. It was like they were starring in their very own thriller: David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson in _Under Fire_. He wondered what she'd have done if someone had been tailing them. Once they arrived at the hotel, she allowed the valet to park the rental. He was surprised to discover that she had access to a special V.I.P. elevator, which took them straight to the tenth floor. 

"Here it is." Gillian used the card key and pushed open the door to the room. Correction—rooms. This was a penthouse suite with an ocean view. How the hell she was affording this?

"My home away from home—at least until Wednesday." After holding the door open for him, she placed the Do Not Disturb sign on the outside door handle, closed the door and locked the deadbolt. 

"What happens on Wednesday?" It was presumptuous to assume her plans would involve him somehow, but he couldn't help hoping they would.

"I'm checking into a small hotel nearby for a couple of days. My client had to leave early. She knew I'd made plans for after my assignment ended, so she offered to let me stay here. I took her up on it." She looked around the suite. "I lucked out. Finding anything near the beach at the last minute would have been impossible. I'd have ended up at the Econolodge near the airport." 

"Or a Super 8 in the Valley." David was feeling lucky, too, until it hit him. She was checking into the motel on Wednesday _for a couple of days._ That would mean she was leaving Friday. _Fuck._ It was already Monday. That left four days and four nights. He'd assumed...shit. He had no business assuming anything. "Where should I put my stuff," he said in a neutral tone, trying to hide his disappointment. 

He looked around the living area. The sofa looked modern, and expensive, ditto for the knock-off Eames chair. There was the requisite wall-mounted flat screen, a low-slung media center topped with an orchid plant in a blue ceramic vase. At the far end, he spotted a small cabinet complete with a built-in mini-bar, open shelves stocked with glassware and what he assumed were liqueurs, priced to match their surroundings. A small dining table and four chairs sat next to floor-to-ceiling windows, the expanse of glass broken only by a sliding door that opened onto the balcony. Even from here he could see they had a panoramic view, but it didn't compare with the one at the end of the trail head in Tuna Canyon. He had hoped to take her there. 

Other than the computer sitting on the small dining table, there wasn't anything of hers sitting out that he could see. She must keep everything neatly tucked away. 

"I'm letting you have the bedroom," Gillian said. Her face looked drawn and her hands were fumbling with the card key as she put it back into her handbag. "It's this way." Without waiting for his reply, she walked away. 

There was no reason for him to inconvenience her like this. "Wait, Gillian." He followed after her as she disappeared through a door by the buffet. "I can take the sofa." He stopped just at the threshold. She was standing in front of the unmade king-sized bed. 

She sighed. "I'm too keyed up to sleep."

That didn't make sense, or maybe it did. It wasn't worth fighting about. "Okay. The bed it is, if that's what you want." 

She looked relieved. "Thanks. I just need the loo, and I'll be out of your way. There are fresh towels, soap and..." 

He tried to listen but with last night's adrenaline rush gone, he was exhausted. He'd brushed his teeth before he went to bed...yesterday? It could wait until he got some rest. It could all wait. As soon as she disappeared into the bathroom, he dropped his duffel down by the door. He peeled off his T-shirt and, after a moment of hesitation, set it on the floor by the bed. Next he kicked off his running shoes, and nudged them aside to where he wouldn't stumble over them later. This—whatever it was they were doing—already faced enough obstacles; they didn't need another visit to the ER. He placed his wallet, phone, keys and change in the drawer of the bedside table on the left; his socks, belt and jeans came off next. Those he folded and left next to his shoes. Feeling a little foolish, he retrieved his T-shirt, folded it and placed it on top of the pile. 

He examined the bed. The comforter, duvet—whatever designers called the thing that had replaced ordinary bedspreads back in the eighties—he folded down so that he didn't succumb to heat exhaustion. Usually he slept with just a sheet for cover, even in the dead of what passed for winter in California. He crawled beneath the sheet, and after a quick glance toward the bathroom door, shed his boxers and added them to the pile of clothing. He yawned, turned onto his side and scrunched the pillow up under his neck. What side did she like to sleep on, he wondered before he caught himself. _Don't be stupid._ This wasn't a romantic liaison or even a sexual one. All she'd offered him was a place to stay until his house was no longer a crime scene, which was a hell of a lot, given that they'd only met Saturday night. He turned over, grabbed the pillow from the other side of the bed and put it on top of his. He took a deep, slow breath in and let it out, trying to relax. He pulled the pillow out from underneath his head and sniffed. The fabric had Gillian's scent all over it. _Of course it did. She was sleeping here last night before you called and woke her up, you idiot._ He groaned inwardly. Yes, he liked her. Yes, she's sexy and smart and courageous. She was all of those things, and probably more besides, but in a few short days, she'd be returning home. 

Damn it. He had turn off his thoughts or he'd never get to sleep. He tried to think of something to take his mind off the chaos that had taken over his life, and off her. Maybe that self-hypnosis trick would work, the CD his therapist had given him to help with his insomnia. How did it start? "Allow your attention to focus only on your body." Perfect. After months of use, he had gotten to where just thinking about listening to the fucking tape made him drowsy: classical conditioning at its best. He nestled into the pillows, took in another quick hit of Gillian's scent, then turned onto his back. 

Even without her departure looming, things between them were about to become more difficult. When he woke up, she'd have questions—and she'd expect answers, real answers, not the half-truths he'd foisted on his ex-wife. Whatever version of the truth he decided to tell Gillian about Silberman, he'd better get his story straight. For his part, he had a few questions he'd like to ask her. To start with, he wanted to know more about the person she had mentioned back at the restaurant, her partner. He yawned and shut his eyes. 

The darkened room was making him drowsy; just having her close by was comforting. Whatever might happen in the future, she was with him now. That had to mean something. 

  


Gillian stared at her face in the bathroom mirror. The prominent dark circles under both eyes were telling her in no uncertain terms that she was not a kid anymore. She really did need her beauty-sleep. She patted some "miracle cream" around her eyes and mouth. She could use a miracle or three after last night's misadventures. After washing and drying her hands, she knocked briskly to let him know she was coming out. Hearing no reply, she cracked open the door. 

"David, I'm done. The bathroom is..." Oh. He had already fallen asleep. She tiptoed quietly toward the bed where he lay sleeping. She knew should quit staring and walk past him quickly and—God help her. The man looked more attractive lying in bed asleep than he did standing upright. He had turned onto his left side, only partially covered by the top sheet. His muscular upper torso, back, neck and both perfect arms were all exposed, as well as one exquisitely formed calf and foot. Sucking her breath in, Gillian hurried out of the bedroom and closed the door behind her. She leaned against the door and put her hands over her face. If she'd stayed in that room for one second longer, there was no telling what could have happened. In her fantasy, the sheet was gone, and she was on top of him, getting her first taste of his luscious-looking mouth. She wouldn't want to stop with David's lips. Oh, no. She wanted to sample everything. 

_Slow down. You're getting way ahead of yourself._ She had to look at the big picture, and start acting like a professional. David was in trouble, a lot of trouble if her instincts were right. Adding sex into the mix could prove a distraction. But he wasn't a client which meant he wasn't off-limits. Once this got sorted and he was out of danger, the question of sex could be put back on the table. She sighed. There was only one answer, at least for her. Whether or not it actually happened would be up to David. 

She needed to reevaluate everything that had happened over the past 48 hours, and try to put all the pieces together. But first, some caffeine. She turned on the Pod-coffee maker and made herself a cup. After a sip, she made a face. It wasn't good, but it was fast. It did taste better than Rae's and she'd drunk that happily for years with Greg. She sat down at the dining table and turned on her laptop. If she was going to solve this, she'd need to dig deeper, especially into David's life. He might view what she was doing as a violation of trust. And if getting closer to him was her only goal, she'd do things differently. She'd ask questions and see what he had to say. But she had to make his safety her first priority, damn it. _You can't have a relationship with a dead man._

And there it was: clearly, on some level, Greg's death was still influencing her choices, something she would need to keep in mind. Fortunately, Gillian had always been good at compartmentalizing. She would bring it up with her therapist when she got back to London.

Deciding that whatever was on the internet was fair game, she typed "david duchovny" into the search engine. His name brought up 44,000,000 entries. Gillian groaned. He even had his own Wikipedia page, complete with his education, academic appointments, and a lengthy list of publications. Other than that his birthday—August 7, 1960, was two days and eight years before hers—she'd gleaned nothing about his personal life, nor anything that shed any light on recent events. Mostly it confirmed what she already knew. David was a smart guy: Princeton, class of 1982, with double majors in English Literature and Biology. He completed his PhD in Entomology at Cornell, was hired at UC Davis in 1989, retired in 2013 as a full professor, at age 53. She was curious about why he'd taken early retirement. There was a brief mention of the sheer volume of his publications—over 200 articles and a couple of books—and his awards. His bio at the Academy of Sciences contained essentially the same information. 

He'd had a distinguished career until two years ago, when out of nowhere, he'd gone off the rails. The Naked Truth vids were out of character for a serious academic, to say nothing of his mid-life career change to beekeeping, in Los Angeles, of all places. For 25 years, he'd worked and lived in a small college town in a rural area of California. Then, out of the blue, he'd left it all behind and moved to LA. Someone had made a website for the bee sanctuary, but she didn't see a connection there. Naturally, there was nothing about his work for Silberman or for MegaCorp, which did seem relevant. She pushed back from the table, frustrated. She rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. Her back was hurting and the prospect of reading through the other 43, 999,998 entries was making her cranky. 

She hadn't eaten anything since yesterday's dinner and had only slept a few hours. She should be famished and exhausted; instead, she was cruising on the adrenaline rush from the shooting and the emotional high of being with him. He was here, sleeping in her bed, not twenty feet away. She didn't want food, or drink, or even sleep. She wanted him. It was all she could do to keep herself from opening up the bedroom door so she could gaze at him. God, what was wrong with her?

She decided to check her email. The kids had sent her pictures taken at Disneyland Paris. She looked through them all, and forwarded her favorite to her phone. There was a message from her employer asking about her availability. Was she still going to be returning to London at the end of the week? That was the right question. The problem was she didn't know the answer. "Ask again later," was the only honest reply she could give. Although her boss wouldn't be pleased, he'd get over it. The problem was that the upcoming weekend was hers with the boys, and that was a commitment she tried never to break. Somehow, she had to figure all this out, and do it quickly.

A phone call to the Santa Monica P.D. was next on the agenda. Detective What's-his-face had given David his card. The detective had said he'd call David on Monday, but that David could call him anytime if there was anything new. The shooting at David's house certainly qualified. The investigating officer at the scene—and damn it, she couldn't remember his name either—had told them he would let the Santa Monica police department know about the shooting but she doubted they'd gotten around to it. They had other priorities. 

She slid into the bedroom, holding her breath. His wallet might still be in his trousers, and the card inside the wallet. His jeans were folded and sitting in a neat pile next to the bed, along with the rest of his clothing. His T-shirt was on top of the pile. She glanced at David. He was still sound asleep, his face relaxed and peaceful. Furtively she picked up his T-shirt, held it to her face, and inhaled deeply. _Focus, Gillian._ She dropped the shirt, picked up the jeans and felt around in the pockets. Nothing in there besides lint. Keeping one eye on him, she eased open the top drawer of the bedside table. His wallet was sitting inside it, along with his phone, his keys, a pair of sunglasses, loose change and a pocket comb. 

Just as she was about to open up the wallet, a twinge of conscience hit. That wallet was his personal property and David hadn't given her permission to touch his things. Even if well-intentioned, her rifling through his possessions was an invasion of privacy. He had accepted her offer for a place to stay, and that was all. They were just beginning to get to know one another. David had told the sheriff that she was his friend, a convenient fiction. If it was going to become a reality, she needed to act like one. Gillian placed the wallet back where she'd found it and slide the drawer closed. Without a backward glance, she left the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

She needed to set some boundaries for herself. She wasn't working for David and she wasn't his girlfriend or his lover. On the other hand, she couldn't just sit here, twiddling her thumbs. What could a friend do under these circumstances? Before they had left David's house, an officer from the L.A. County Sheriff's Department had given both of them his card. There was no reason she couldn't give him a call, on the pretext of asking if they'd finished processing the crime scene. She retrieved her purse, took out her wallet, and found the card. Deputy Sheriff William McCullough. Local calls were free from the hotel phone and would be harder to trace, especially since she wasn't registered under her own name. She sat down and picked up the receiver, got an outside line and dialed the number. By now McCullough would be off duty, but she could leave him a message, ask him to get back to her. 

To her surprise, the call went through. "Deputy McCullough."

"Hello. This is Gillian Anderson, David's friend."

"Yes. What can I do for you, Ms. Anderson?" The deputy's voice sounded different than it had last night, more guarded maybe. Or he was just as tired as she was.

"Hi. I, uh, assumed you'd be off duty. I was calling to find out if you were done with the crime scene? I was hoping to take David back to his house today," Gillian said. 

"Where are you now?" McCullough asked. "We may have further questions for Mr. Duchovny." 

Gillian sat up straight. "We're at my hotel in Santa Monica," she hedged. "We both told you everything we know. Do you need him to come into the station?" 

"Just a second. I've got another call coming in." Without waiting for her reply, he put her on hold. What sort of questions? Before she could think of a plausible answer, he was back on the line. "Hello? Ms. Anderson," he said in a low tone. "Don't come to the station. I get off at noon. Meet me at 10 Speed Coffee at one o'clock. It's on Calabasas Road, in Old Town. Come alone. There's something I need to tell you about Duchovny. He may not be who you think he is." Click.

_What the hell was that about?_ After hanging up the phone, she stared at the bedroom door. David was still asleep, though perhaps not for much longer. She had to make a quick decision. As much as she hated to admit it, her attraction to David might be clouding her judgment. Whatever McCullough's motive was, she had to hear what he had to say. 

She picked up her laptop and grabbed her messenger bag from the closet. After stowing the laptop in one compartment and her purse in the other, she took her baseball cap off the closet shelf and stuck it on. Next she slipped on her sweater and added a pair of sunglasses. She had some bobby-pins in her purse. When she got down to the car, she'd put her hair up. It wasn't much of a disguise but it would have to do. 

She couldn't just leave David alone without an explanation. She took out a sheet of the hotel stationary and the pen from the desk and wrote a quick note and put it on the table where he'd be sure to see it. It was nearly eleven. She'd better hurry if she wanted to get to the coffee house before Deputy McCullough arrived. 

  


Traffic had been surprising light for June. Ten Speed Coffeehouse was in an odd location, just a smallish room at the back of a large restaurant in Old Town Calabasas. There was also a bike shop out on the large patio where most of the patrons were congregated. They must cater to cyclists because parking for anything not on two wheels was scarce. She settled for a spot down the street.

After ordering a large coffee and a blueberry muffin at the counter, she found a seat and took out her laptop. After a moment, she typed Crystal MacCluie into the search engine. Crystal did not have her own Wikipedia page; in fact, other than her Facebook account, which was friends-only, there wasn't much to see. Sending a friend request to her was pointless; after all, she had gotten the woman arrested. 

Gillian sipped her coffee and nibbled the pastry, keeping one eye on the entrances and the other on her laptop. When Deputy McCullough appeared at the door, she waved him over to the table. He took the seat across from her. His bloodshot eyes and unshaven face weren't unusual for a man who'd worked all night. His expression was unreadable but his shoulders looked tense. 

"Ms. Anderson, thanks for coming." 

Gillian closed her laptop. She gave him a slow smile and extended her hand. "Call me Gillian." Playing nice with the local law enforcement was a talent she'd learned to cultivate at the Secret Service. "The coffee here is excellent. Thanks for suggesting this place." 

McCullough shook her hand. "I go by Bill. Yeah, it is great coffee. Unfortunately, I'm going to have to skip it. After we're done, I'm heading home for some shuteye." He glanced around the room and lowered his voice. "I'd rather do this some place more private, if that's okay?" 

"Of course." Gillian shoved the laptop back into her bag and followed him. He held open the back door, and steered her toward the back of the small parking lot. They ended up in front of what she assumed was his personal vehicle, a older model black Ford Escape. He opened the passenger door. After a moment of hesitation, she climbed in, settled her coffee in the cup-holder but kept the bag on her lap. She turned around and watched as he fished underneath the passenger seat, pulling out a thin manila envelope. His eyes scanned the perimeter as he handed it to her. The cloak and dagger routine was beginning to annoy her.

"How is Deputy Rodriguez doing?" She should have led with that rather than the coffee bit. _Fuck._ She must be even more tired than she thought.

McCullough's face relaxed. "Good news there. Manny's in stable condition and expected to make a full recovery."

"I'm relieved to hear that." She was about to open the envelope and examine the contents when his hand on her shoulder startled her. "What are you..." 

"Put it into your bag and don't turn around." He leaned over and put his arm around her. "I think we've got company," he whispered, his eyes on the rear view mirror. 

_Fuck._ Gillian did as she was told, and leaned into his embrace. 

"Could someone have followed you?" McCullough asked in a low tone.

"It's not impossible but no one besides you knew I was coming." The note she'd left David had said nothing about where she was headed. _Oh God._ Could she have missed that she was being tailed? She pushed that thought away. "Isn't it more likely that someone followed you?" 

"I don't see why they would. I dunno, maybe they just want a caffeine fix but I don't want to take the chance. Where did you park? Not in the lot, I assume?" His eyes were glued to the mirror. 

"Down the block. The lot was full." 

McCullough pulled his arm away and turned on the ignition. "Good. They've gone into the coffeehouse. Let's get out of here before they discover you're not where they thought you'd be." He backed out of the space, and pulled out of the lot, heading east toward Woodland Hills. At the first light, he turned right, and drove up the winding, residential street. After a series of twists and turns, he pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine.

Gillian unbuckled her seat belt and turned to face McCullough. "Okay. Why am I here? And what's in that envelope?"

McCullough looked away and shifted in his seat. "Look, I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but..."

"You're right. I don't. Who were those guys and why do they have you so spooked?" Gillian demanded.

He held up his hands. "Jesus. I'm getting to that. Is it my turn now? They told my boss they're with some joint task force. The FBI and another outfit I've never worked with—the DIA."

Gillian sat up. "Wait." DIA stood for Defense Intelligence Agency. They answered to the Secretary of Defense. "Why would the federal government be interested in last night's break-in?"

McCullough shrugged. "I have no clue. All I know is they waltzed into the station this morning and took over our investigation." 

"Go on." This was worse than she'd thought. 

"There's not much to tell. I was going over my notes when my boss called me into his office. Two 'men in black' were waiting. They took everything we'd collected from the scene. For reasons of 'national security,' so they claimed," he said, using air quotes.

"I don't understand." What had David gotten himself mixed up in?

"Neither do I. But it looks like your friend is involved in something bigger than you think. Something I gather he hasn't told you about?" McCullough looked at her, clearly expecting an answer. 

David had steadfastly refused to tell her anything, but McCullough didn't need to know that. She held up the manilla envelope. "What's in this?"

He rolled his eyes. "That's how you're going to play this? Fine. Those are my notes. I printed a copy after the Feds left. Unfortunately, there's not much to go on, and most of it you already know. Our forensics team went over that place with a fine tooth comb early this morning. They got nothing, not even a boot print. There's the bullet they dug out of our guy in surgery. Other than that, the physical evidence is non-existent. Chances are, we were never going to catch these guys."

"Unless they make another attempt," Gillian said, her mind racing. Maybe the two events were unrelated, or maybe after Crystal failed, they—whoever they were—had decided to try again. 

"Attempt? At what?" 

"At kidnapping." She glanced at the side mirror. The street remained quiet. "Maybe they weren't trying to steal something from David. Maybe they were after him." She turned back to McCullough. "Why are you telling me all this? You don't know me—you don't know David. What's going on?"

He looked away, colored slightly. "Ten years ago, I was still in the Academy. The shooting where your partner was killed was all over the news. They even used the incident as a case study."

Gillian blanched. A case study on how _not_ to run an undercover operation? 

"My point is I recognized you. I knew you used to be a cop, a _good_ cop," he emphasized. "Besides, I didn't like the feds swooping in and taking over our case."

Gillian nodded absently, her mind focused on putting the pieces together. If the FBI wanted David for questioning, they would have already picked him up. Hell, they still might. He'd used his cell phone to call her cell phone, twice. The Stingray technology the government used could pinpoint a user's location within a block or less. They wouldn't even need a court order to begin surveillance, not if they thought national security was at stake. If they were wanting to protect David, she wouldn't have had to fish him out of Crystal's trunk in the first place. Maybe they were using him as bait? The idea made her stomach roll, but it wasn't exactly unprecedented. 

She studied McCullough's face. Her instincts told her he was telling the truth, what he knew of it. Unfortunately, he didn't know much. And he didn't know David at all. _You don't really know him either,_ she reminded herself. It was time to change that. 

Gillian shifted in her seat. Her back and neck had tensed up, and she could feel a headache coming on. Resisting the urge to massage her neck, she straightened up and forced her attention back to McCullough. "Thank you, uh, Bill, for letting me in on this. I owe you one." God, she was so tired. At least, she'd remembered the man's first name. "I'll make sure to get rid of the file after I'm done with it. You'd better take me back to my car." 

She'd been so careful up to now. Chances were, David was safe and she intended to keep him that way. As soon as she could find a phone booth in working order, she'd call the hotel, and tell him to stay put. She was also going to put him on notice. When she got back, she was going to have some tough questions for him. The FBI and the military getting involved put this matter on a whole new level. She was beginning to suspect that David didn't just need a bodyguard. If he wanted her help in getting out of this mess, he was going to have to give her some straight answers. 

  



	6. It Never Entered My Mind

David woke up slowly under the best of circumstances so it took a minute for him to realize he wasn't in his bed at home. He rolled over on his side and squinted at the clock. Three o'clock in the afternoon? He flopped onto his back and rubbed his face. Only four more days to spend with her and this day was half over. Then it hit him. A deputy sheriff had been shot at and wounded. His home was a crime scene and this was not a romantic liaison.

Feeling restless, he got up and pulled on his jeans. He opened the draperies and the heavy glass sliding door, letting in the afternoon light and the scent of sea air. On a clear day, he'd be able to see Catalina Island on the ocean horizon. But today, like most days in early June, clouds and fog kept it from view. He stepped onto the small balcony and walked over to the cast iron railing. If it had been warm and sunny, the beach would be covered with people. Even with the temperature hovering in the mid-sixties, he could spot joggers, bikers, and a few intrepid body surfers braving the frigid Pacific water. There were couples, walking hand in hand, and people out walking their dogs. He missed his dogs. He'd let Téa have the kids for most of the summer; he should have at least kept one of the dogs. But the kids wanted to take both Spence and Kirby with them, and he was already feeling guilty enough as it was. He didn't want to think about how much he missed his kids. It hurt too damn much.

He rubbed his arms, walked back in and headed to the bathroom. The fresh air felt good. Gillian might be up, but if she was asleep, he didn't want to risk waking her. He could sit on the balcony, watch the waves and catch up on some reading. 

He was reaching for the door knob, mentally reviewing the recent article in _Science_ on emerging infectious diseases as a threat to pollinators, when the door opened up, startling him out of his revery. Just inside the entry stood Gillian. She wore a white terrycloth robe, her hair loosely braided, small tendrils curling around her ears and forehead. The robe was so over-sized that it made her look even smaller. Her lips and cheeks were flushed. Behind her, he could see the steam. She must have just gotten out of the shower, which meant there was a strong probability that she was naked underneath that robe. _I'd like to see her naked_ , he thought, then tried immediately to un-think it. That kind of worked except now he was thinking about seeing her naked _in the shower_. He gave himself a mental shake. "I'm sorry, I'm in your way," he said, stepping aside to let her pass. 

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you wait," she said at that exact moment. She tried to pass by him but he had stepped directly in front of her, again. 

"Sorry," he said, moving again in the opposite direction. Once again, they moved in tandem. "Sorry," he repeated for the third time. He tried to think of something else to say, but his feet felt glued in place, and his brain was stuck on an endless loop of shower, naked, and Gillian. 

"That's okay," she said, looking as distracted as he felt. Her eyes were fixated on his upper torso, her mouth slightly opened. When she licked her lips, he nearly groaned. He wasn't wearing much himself, he realized, just his jeans. She hadn't laid a finger on him and he already felt like the room was too warm and his pants were too tight. He found himself standing nearly toe to toe with her, so close that looking down, he caught a glimpse of her breasts. Had she closed the distance, or had he? He wanted to reach for her, push the robe away, and put his mouth where her perfectly formed clavicle met her shoulder. Instead, he watched, mesmerized, as she placed her hands on his chest, and gazed up at him. It was like she could hear his thoughts. The contact felt electric. He wanted more of it. He wanted more of her. 

He swallowed hard. "Gillian, what are we doing here?" 

Instead of answering, she ran her hands slowly up his torso until they were around his neck. As she stood on tiptoe and tilted her head, he reached for her face and kissed her softly, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. She opened her mouth for his tongue to explore; he reciprocated as eagerly as he dared. Kissing her was like—God—it was like being a teenaged kid again, lost in the sensations, worried about how far he could go. His cock strained against his fly. He wanted desperately to grab her hand and press it against him. 

She was the one to break their embrace, putting her hands over his and bringing them down to his side. He nearly moaned in protest. But, this did give him a chance to look at her face again. She wasn't wearing makeup, which revealed a scattering of freckles. She could have no idea how much he adored those freckles. 

"David, we have to talk," she said, her brow furrowed. "Oh God. David."

Jesus. Even the way she said his name was turning him on. "Yeah?" he managed to reply.

"It's just...I've been thinking about kissing you since the night we first met," she confessed.

 _She's been thinking about me since the night we met._ He reminded himself to breathe. "Did it measure up to your expectations?" he teased, playing with the locks of hair that had come loose from her braid. 

"Yes," she said. "Oh yes." Her hands were back on his torso, her fingers playing with his chest hair, drifting dangerously close to his nipples. Fuck. She _was_ reading his mind. 

He removed her hands from his chest—they were way too distracting—but kept hold of them. "But?" he prompted. 

She gave his hands a gentle squeeze, and took a half step back. "You didn't see my note." 

"No. I just woke up, actually." He had to ask, though he doubted he'd like the answer. "What's this about a note?" 

She sighed. "It's probably still on the table. It doesn't matter now. I found out this morning that the investigation has been taken over by the FBI. You have to tell me what's going on." 

He was confused. He hadn't had coffee, he still had to urinate, and there had been too many crimes committed in the past 48 hours of which he was the victim. "You mean the shooting?" 

Her brow furrowed. "Yes, of course, the shooting." 

This conversation had turned serious fast. She had on her "Agent Anderson" hat and the switch was disconcerting, though kind of sexy, too, if he was being honest. "Who told you that?" he said, trying not to sound defensive. 

"I think you'd better go first." She let go of his hands. "I deserve some answers, David."

It was the same thing his wife had said to him, right before she'd accepted a job offer in New York City. Téa was right. But he wasn't sure if he owed a woman he'd met less than 48 hours ago, even someone as beautiful and captivating as Gillian, the same consideration as his ex-wife.

"You're still blocking the doorway," he pointed out, nodding toward the bathroom behind her. She narrowed her eyes but moved out of his way.

Coming back into the bedroom, the first thing he noticed was the way the afternoon light lit up her face and the sea air had turned her hair into a halo of tendrils. It reminded him somehow of the night they'd met. Gillian sat perched on the edge of her bed, doing something odd with her hands. She had dressed in loose fitting pants and a white V-necked T-shirt that clung to her breasts. Her bare feet peeked out from underneath the hem of her pants. Her toenails were tiny, perfect, and painted a bright fire engine red. He forced his gaze back to her face. Her guarded expression was in stark contrast to the openness and warmth, the frank sensuality, he'd enjoyed just moments ago. This woman was a mass of contradictions. He'd never met anyone like her.

Feeling self-conscious, he decided to grab something to wear from his duffel, which was sitting next to the bed. As he got close, she moved away and walked into the living room. After giving his gray T-shirt a quick sniff, he pulled it over his head. He picked up his phone and followed her. 

She paused at the dining table, but didn't turn to face him. "I'll make us some coffee. The Nespresso makes terrible coffee but it's fast." 

He took a seat facing the sliding glass door. "Sounds okay to me." If he had to endure the third degree, he could at least enjoy the view. 

After washing his hands, he'd stared into the bathroom mirror, wondering how much he should tell her. He wanted to trust her. He wanted to tell her everything: about how he'd fucked up his marriage, about how he'd fucked up his life. The cluster-fuck that was working for Silberman. If the FBI was involved, it was even worse than he'd thought.

She handed him a cup and set about making one for herself. 

"Thanks." He took a sip and looked at his messages. Maybe he'd spent too many late nights drinking Folger's Crystals in his lab at Davis because this didn't taste half bad. There were two texts from his kids, one from Téa, and six from Silberman. He opened up the last one: "You need to get your ass back here or I will see you in hell." Pithy. He would block that jerk, just as soon as he figured out how. The iPhone was an early birthday present from his kids, paid for by or at least heavily subsidized by his ex, who considered him a Luddite for clinging to his old flip-phone. He'd liked that phone. But Téa was right, the iPhone's features would make it easier to keep in touch with their kids.

She set her cup on the table, pulled out the chair next to him and sat down. "Anything unexpected?"

"No. Just a couple of texts from my kids, one from Téa, and a shitload from Silberman." He passed the phone to her. "Take a look, if you like."

She stared at the message, then looked at David. "May I look at the others? Just his, not your personal messages."

"Knock yourself out." He knew the content by heart. Pleas to come back to work, repeated ad infinitum. Being threatened with eternal damnation was a new twist, not that they weren't both deserving of it.

She studied his expression. "You haven't eaten anything today. I haven't eaten much. How about if we order room service?" she proposed.

He frowned. "You don't want to get out of here, take a walk on the beach, maybe get something down at the pier?" He was feeling antsy as hell, and was still thinking about their kiss. He didn't want to be talking about Jesse. He didn't want to be having this conversation at all. He wanted to kiss her again.

"I'm worried." She glanced at the door. "I think it's safer if we stay here, until we know what we're up against." 

The way she said "we" made him feel a little better. At least she wasn't planning to hang him out to dry—yet. "Sure. I could eat." 

He glanced at the menu and ordered the first thing that didn't sound awful—a fish sandwich and fries. He didn't normally drink in the middle of the day but a beer sounded good. _A bottle of scotch sounds even better._ He didn't pay attention to what Gillian had ordered. Probably a salad. 

After they'd ordered, she rummaged through her messenger bag, took out a small pad and a pencil, and sat back down at the table. She looked serious and expectant. If only he had prepared a lecture and brought his slide projector, they'd be set. "I'm not sure where to begin."

"Why don't you start with what you were doing for Silberman before you jumped ship?" she suggested.

That was exactly what he thought she'd say and what he didn't want to talk about. "What makes you so sure this is related to my work?" he hedged. 

"Call it a hunch." She picked up his phone with the messages from Silberman and waved it. "Look, I know this is difficult." If she was expecting some kind of heart-felt, soul-cleansing confession in response, she was out of luck. She wrote an S on her pad, circled it, and put a check next to it. "Tell me about the project." At his continued silence, she set her pen down and took his hand. "David. I can't help you if you won't let me in." 

He closed his eyes. This was so much worse than she could imagine. He squeezed her hand, let it go, and turned his chair to face the ocean. Maybe it would be easier if he didn't look directly at her.

"I was recruited to consult on a special project. I had thought it was something I'd been working on for the Department of Defense a few years ago." He sneaked a look, trying to gauge her reaction. 

Her expression didn't give anything away. "So, while you were on the faculty of UC Davis, you also consulted for DARPA?"

"That's correct. How do you know about DARPA?" It was a fair question. Most civilians had never heard of it. 

She looked wary. "I know DARPA stands for Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency. It was started by President Eisenhower, because of Sputnik," she said slowly. 

"That's right." He was surprised at her precise answer. "Its original mission was to prevent another technological surprise like Sputnik. At one time, DARPA supported basic science as well as weapons research. But in 1973, its mission was refocused..."

"David. Stop with the history lesson," she said sharply. "I just need to know what _you_ did." 

Didn't she get it? He hated what he'd done—hated what he'd gotten involved in. He rocked his chair backward, trying to balance himself on two legs. "Okay, okay. Have you heard of the HI-MEMS program?" She shook her head. It was a rhetorical question. He knew she hadn't. No one outside of the research community itself, aside from some right-wing conspiracy nuts and a couple of investigative reporters, paid attention to fringe science. His favorite article was the one entitled _Unleashing the Bugs of War._ Good times. "Okay. How about Robo-Bug?" 

To his surprise, she had heard of that one. "That sounds kind of familiar. Was it supposed to be for spying? Putting bugs into bugs? Cyborg moths, or something." She started laughing. Her laughter was the goofiest, sexiest thing he'd ever heard. 

Unfortunately, she wouldn't be laughing for long. He lost his balance and his chair landed back on the floor with a thud. "Yes, we used moths, also roaches. And honeybees, which is how I got involved. And, yes. The primary application was for surveillance." Or so they claimed. He didn't know what to believe anymore. "There are a number of groups working on it. There's one at Cornell, MIT. CAL, of course. Several research teams are developing mechanical insects. Harvard has even gotten one to fly—but they haven't come up with a power source yet." 

There was a knock on the door. "Could that be our food?" It seemed a little soon for room service, but the interruption was welcomed.

She held up her hand to silence him. "I doubt it," she said in a low tone. "Go into the bedroom, and stay there until I tell you it's safe." Gillian pulled her gun out of her handbag and removed the safety. 

Jesus. It was like being in a bad remake of _The Bodyguard_. He was never going to get used to this. 

"David, please," she hissed. He wasn't happy but he did as he was told. "Lock the door and get back."

He complied with the former but stayed closer than she would have wanted. Through the door, he could at least follow her half of the conversation. "I'm sorry but there is no one here by that name." She raised her voice and put some edge into it. Apparently satisfied that they'd gone away, she opened the bedroom door. "You can come out," she said, holding out her hand to him.

He let her lead him back to the table, eyeballing the handgun she was toting in the other hand. Did she really have to take her gun out just to check through the peephole? "What was that about?" He assumed it was warranted, but her continued vigilance was making him nervous.

She shrugged. "Wrong room. Wrong floor. I don't know. Let's see if we can get through with this before our meal arrives." 

Reluctantly, David sat down and tried to settle his nerves. "Where was I?" 

"You were going to tell me all about your cyborg bees," she said, not missing a beat.

He watched her put her gun away and move the bag next to the table, waiting until she sat down. "My team was working on something different. You may not be aware that bees have a keen sense of smell, better even than dogs."

She smiled. "I had no idea."

"It's true. They're much easier to train than dogs. In a matter of hours, honeybees can be taught to detect the chemical components used to make bombs. Our plan was to find a way to train chip-augmented bees to find unexploded landmines," said David.

"That would be incredible. The lives that would be saved—and limbs. How close were you?" She looked impressed which made him absurdly happy. 

He cleared his throat. "To a limited extent, we succeeded. We took bee larvae, implanted them with silicon chips, and had them develop into adult worker bees." That was the easy part, but David had felt it was only a matter of time before they had gotten it to work. "Unfortunately, the military lost interest before we had a working prototype. They shut us down, pulled our funding. Their self-proclaimed experts decided that bees were too unpredictable." David shook his head. "They couldn't have been more wrong."

Gillian tapped her pencil on the table. "You still haven't told me what you were doing for Silberman."

"It's complicated. Okay, to begin with, I set up the facility, I trained the technicians. I oversaw the conditioning program. It was pretty much the same thing as I did for DARPA."

"So why did you quit?" she asked.

"That's...also complicated. Back when I first heard about the sale to MegaCorp, I was sure we'd get shut down again. But Jesse said not to worry—that the funding for the project was secure. Everything seemed okay, at first. When Jesse hired someone else to oversee the project, I didn't take it personally. I was just a consultant. I didn't need the money. And I certainly didn't want to work for MegaCorp full-time. So I turned the reins over to the new boss, and cut back on my hours." 

He hadn't stayed as on top of things as he should have, but family issues had taken precedence. Téa had accepted a job offer in New York. They were still renegotiating custody and visitation. She'd also gotten a new boyfriend, which ended his hope for a reconciliation. None of this was relevant to current events but it was in the back of his mind at the time. He looked over at Gillian. She was still taking notes. He was curious as hell but he was not going to look at them. 

"David. You realize that you keep drifting away?" she said. 

He wanted to tell her the truth. He wanted to say to her, "Yes, I do. Whenever I think about what happened I'm overwhelmed with guilt and grief." Instead, he apologized. Again. "I'm sorry. There was a lot going on." An understatement if there ever was one. 

"I can't recall the exact date it happened but it was around six months ago. When I got to the lab, I ran into some people I'd never seen before. They were asking the technicians questions about their work. These guys weren't corporate types and they sure as hell weren't entomologists. I introduced myself, and asked what MegaCorp division they were from. When they wouldn't say, I immediately went to Dr. Reddy, the project manager. Instead of answering my questions, she clammed up and referred me to Jesse. So I finished my work, and drove to the Silberman Industries building in Santa Monica. Security wouldn't let me in—they said my old work I.D. was no longer valid." That should have been a clue right there, he realized now. "When I finally did get in to see him, he tried to blow me off. I didn't need to worry about a thing, or so he claimed. I just needed to do my job and 'everything would work out fine.'"

"But you were worried," Gillian prompted. "Exactly who did you think these guys were?" 

David tried and failed to think of an answer that wouldn't make him sound either paranoid or insane. "Men in Black? The Mexican Mafia? The Illuminati?" 

That got her attention. "David. Seriously?" 

_Kind of. Maybe._ "I honestly don't recall. I wasn't thinking clearly by that point." 

"You were angry at Jesse. Was that when you decided to quit?" 

Damn straight he was mad. The deception had turned out to be a betrayal of the first order. Gillian was acting sympathetic, which only made him feel more...emasculated. "No, not yet." He should have quit, right then and there. If he had, maybe none of this would have happened. "When I pressed Jesse, he admitted that 'the bee operation,' as he put it, was not part of MegaCorp. It had been turned into a side venture, which he was funding with the help of some independent investors." 

"Independent? As in venture capitalists?" she asked. 

David thought of venture capital as legalized gambling. At least those guys were rolling the dice with their own cash, unlike certain hedge fund managers he knew. "Maybe. Jesse came from money, I know that, so he'd have connections."

Gillian looked up from her notepad. "What kind of connections?"

David shrugged. "To other people with a lot of money? I know the Silbermans were developers, mostly in commercial real estate. They own a couple of office buildings, a shopping center, even a pair of Shell stations on Santa Monica." And probably the warehouse that housed 'the bee operation.' Money had been tight after the recession in 2007, but by the time David had begun working for Jesse, he seemed to be doing okay. "He had to have come into some cash when he sold Silberman Industries to MegaCorp." 

Before she could ask more uncomfortable questions, there was another knock on the door. This time it _was_ room service. The meal would give him a brief reprieve, plus by now he was hungry. Gillian let the servers in, supervised as they set up the meal and poured the beverages. She'd ordered wine, which surprised him. She signed the bill, too—and smiled at him while doing it. 

By the end of their late lunch, he was feeling buzzed, more so than usual after one beer. She seemed pretty loose too, which wouldn't ordinarily concern him, but it was such a contrast to her earlier, professional demeanor. She'd fed him bites of her salad and filched french fries from his plate. He couldn't remember what they'd talked about but whatever he said, it seemed to amuse her. She flirted gently with him through the entire meal, which made him wish he could he forget why they were sitting in a penthouse suite instead of his living room in Topanga. And yes, she was turning him on. When she fiddled with her hair, he imagined himself undoing her braid. Whenever she touched his arm, he could feel his groin tighten in response. Even to a guy who'd been out of the game since the Clinton administration, the signals were obvious. 

He'd better not get used to this. 

"David. You seem so...uncomfortable. Is it something I've said? Something I've done?" she said, her fingers tracing a new pattern on his forearm. 

"No, not at all." He shifted in his seat. "Everything has gotten...complicated." That word again. "You'll be leaving for London on Friday. I guess I just wanted to have more time with you." Which was true, it just wasn't the whole story. 

A shadow passed over her face, and she looked away. When she looked back at him, all at once he could see the pain she'd been masking behind her wistful half-smiles. Maybe he'd been too self-absorbed to see it before. He wanted to know the truth, but he also didn't want to push. 

"We always want more time," she began. "The truth is, we never know..." Her voice grew thick with emotion. She stopped, then shook her head. "David, what I know for certain is this: I want to be with you. I know it's risky, but— " 

"—if we don't, we'll always wonder." he finished. _Yes. Thank God._. He pulled her into his embrace, kissed her hard and lifted her up into his arms. He wasn't going to kid himself—this was a bad idea. He knew the best thing for her would be for him to walk away—but he couldn't do it. Jesse was right about one thing: David was going to hell. Right now, he didn't care. Anyway, how much more trouble could he get into in only four days? "Yes," he said. "Gillian. I want—I need to be with you, too."

Before he could move them toward the bedroom, someone's phone—not his—started playing a pop song he didn't recognize. He hated custom ring tones. He would have ignored it but before he could object, Gillian began wriggling out of his arms. "I'm sorry, David. I have to take this." 

She grabbed the phone from her messenger bag. "Hi. Sharon, what's up?"

David knew Sharon's name though he didn't have a clear memory of meeting her. She was the friend Gillian had been having dinner with the night he ended up in the trunk of Crystal's Prius. The same night he met Gillian. 

"The FBI came to your house?" Gillian sounded as shocked as he felt. This was not a good thing. "What the fuck did they want?" she said. 

He was glad that she was asking the questions because his brain was getting fuzzy. What was the alcohol content of that beer?

"I don't know why they'd be botherin' you. The FBI shoulda known I was stayin' at the Miramar. I told the police. I told the sheriffs too. They even have my number! 

"I'm sorry. 'Course I was gonna to tell you about the shooting. I've been busy, Shari." Her voice was too high and she was slurring her words. Something wasn't right. Whatever it was, it was affecting him, too. His head was spinning. He stumbled toward the sofa and plopped down. Shit. She was swaying on her feet, too. If she didn't watch out, she was going to lose her balance.

"Gillian, maybe you'd better sit down?" 

She shook her finger at him. "Not now, David," she mouthed. "The cute sheriff told me the FBI had taken over but, uh, I don't remember his name..." 

_Cute sheriff? What cute sheriff?_

"David?" Gillian's mouth opened into an O. She took one step toward him and then another. "I don't feel so g—" she said, right before she dropped her phone and passed out cold on top of him. 

"Gillian, oh God. Gillian." Her eyes were rolled back and her body had gone limp. He tried to make her sit up, without success. He patted her cheeks, gently at first, then with more force. "Baby. You gotta wake up." Panic had given his body a welcome shot of adrenaline. There had to be something he could do. If anything happened to her, he could never forgive himself. It was all his fault. Near tears, he cradled her in his arms, trying with his drug-addled brain to work the problem. _Every problem has a solution._ He patted her face again, and kissed the top of her head. "Baby, please." 

Through the chemical fog and emotional turmoil, he could just make out Sharon yelling through the phone receiver. Maybe she could hear him too? _Fuck. FUCK._ What kind of idiot was he? "Call 9-1-1," he managed to croak before collapsing, still holding on tight to Gillian. 

Sharon must have called for help because in no time at all, paramedics burst through the door. 

"Dammit I'm fine," he insisted, as the men in blue uniforms loaded him onto the gurney. "Ow!" he yelped as they jabbed him with a needle and yanked the safety straps into place. He tried once more before they rolled the gurney down the corridor to the elevator. "Please," he pleaded, "you gotta help Gillian. She's the one..."

The last words he heard before losing consciousness made him grateful they were leaving her behind.

"We've come for you, Doctor Duchovny."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some Weird Science in this chapter. Nearly all of it is real, too.


	7. You Took Advantage of Me

Getting drugged by hoodlums and waking up in an ER was bad enough. Being told that David, the man she'd allegedly been protecting, had gone missing was worse. Getting questioned by the FBI about his whereabouts was just the icing on this motherfucking cake. According Sharon's story, and what little Gillian been able to glean from the FBI agents currently interrogating her, he had been abducted right after Gillian had passed out.

"No. I have no idea where David could be. I have no clue who did this to me, let alone how they managed to do it," she told Agent Bad Cop. "Are you positive he wasn't just taken to a different hospital?" she said, turning to Agent Good Cop. Yes, she'd been told their real names, but she couldn't remember them just now. You were drugged, she reminded herself. _Yeah, and how did that happen, exactly, Agent Hotshot?_ She was never going to live this one down.

No, that was wrong, she thought bleakly. She was never going to forgive herself. Somehow, she had let her growing feelings for David interfere with her judgment. She had told him she would help him. She had promised. 

She had failed. 

The bright overhead lights hurt her eyes. If she could close them for a second... 

"Ms. Anderson? Can you hear me?" Gillian's eyes popped wide open. "That's better. You went away there for a second." Agent Bad Cop was looking a wee bit anxious on Gillian's behalf. Maybe she was going to switch it up, let Good Cop play Bad Cop for awhile. _Fuckers._

"Sorry. Was there anything else?" she said, struggling to stay focused. Her head throbbed and her stomach roiled. 

The two agents exchanged glances. "No. That's all for now," said Bad Cop, handing Gillian her card. "If you think of anything else..."

"...I'll call you." She knew the drill. She had already told the agents about meeting Silberman outside Raye's and about his threatening messages. She had reminded them again about Crystal MacCluie and the earlier kidnap attempt. It wasn't anything they didn't already know, but she wanted to be thorough. 

She squinted at the card and then back at the agent. Wow. Special Agent Brooke Terry was a dead ringer for that actress who played the law professor on _How to Get Away With Murder_. Her curly-haired colleague looked enough like Bradley Cooper to be his twin brother. _Why was everyone in this fucking town so fucking attractive?_ In return for her cooperation, these good-looking bozos had given her nada. "You know we can't comment on an ongoing investigation," Agent—Terry— had told her. 

She hated being in this position: answering questions, instead of being the one asking them. Being a victim, instead of catching the criminals. 

After the agents left, she stopped fighting the exhaustion, allowing it to take her into unconsciousness. 

"Gillian! What's going on?" 

It was Sharon. Gillian stifled a groan, opened her eyes, and tried to smile. Her friend was upset, understandably so. She wished she could say something to reassure her. "I'm afraid you know as much as I do." She reached over and patted Sharon's hand. "Thank you for being here." 

Sharon grabbed her hand and squeezed it. "I've been so worried." Gillian hated this part, too. Being comforted only served to remind her of the last time she'd landed in an emergency room. She'd been the lucky one. Her partner had ended up in the morgue. No. She had to stop doing this. Thinking about Greg was only going serve as a distraction. It had only been a few hours since David's abduction. There was even a possibility he'd been taken for ransom. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Gillian spotted a man with a familiar-looking face, skulking in back of the cubicle. She tried to sit up to get a better look. Was that Deputy McCullough? Damn it. It was. 

She turned back to Sharon. "What is _he_ doing here?" She didn't try to keep the irritation out of her voice.

"I found Bill's card in your purse," Sharon said. She looked confused. "You told me he wanted to help. So I called him and told him what had happened." 

_Bill._ "When did I tell you that?" For all Gillian knew, he was in cahoots with whoever had taken David.

"On the phone. In the hotel. When I called you from my house? To tell you about those FBI agents?" Sharon said, a bit impatiently, Gillian noticed. 

"Uh. I can wait in the waiting room." Bill started edging away. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. 

"Please do," Gillian said. He ducked behind the curtain. 

"Look, I was completely freaked out. Talking to him calmed me down. He said he'd meet me at the ER."

McCullough certainly dropped everything and came running. And, already they're on a first name basis?

"Besides, it's just like you said: he is kind of cute," Sharon added, lowering her voice. 

Gillian frowned. "I don't remember any of this." 

"Now as for this guy who keeps getting snatched..."

"His name is David. What about him?" She didn't want more bad news but she supposed she'd better listen. 

"That's right, 'David'. You need to listen to me. David is bad news. Honey, I _know_ he's good-looking, I assume he's great in the sack..." 

That comment woke her up. Sharon was reading her the riot act and maybe she deserved it, but "great in the sack"? In fairness, she _had_ been planning to test that theory before she'd been drugged. "Sharon, that's..." 

Sharon wasn't having it. "Don't you 'Sharon' me. You need to get your priorities straight. You've got kids to think about. Plus, you're supposed to be heading back to London in, what, three days?"

Oh, God. She was supposed to call her kids. "Shit. What time is it?" 

Sharon glanced up at the wall clock hanging over the bed. "It's almost midnight, sweetie. Whatever those bastards gave you really knocked you for a loop." 

If it was midnight here, it would be eight o'clock in the morning in London. At least she hadn't missed their call. Sharon had her wallet. Maybe she had her phone, too? "Do you have my mobile?" 

"Of course." She let go of Gillian's hand to rummage through her own handbag. "Hang on. It's here somewhere," she muttered. "Ah ha!" She handed it to Gillian. "Lucky for you someone at the hotel packed up your valuables to send with the ambulance." 

Lucky. _Right_. "I'm surprised they let you have them." Gillian looked at the phone. Oh no. She touched the screen and brought up the contact list. Her phone had a pass code on it. This one wasn't even locked. 

"The admitting clerk recognized me." Sharon was an RN who had worked in Santa Monica's emergency room before moving to critical care. "She didn't give me any trouble."

Gillian scrolled quickly through the contacts. She didn't recognize most of them but there it was: Téa Leoni. David's ex-wife. "Damn it." She turned to her friend. "It's David's phone."

Maybe the FBI had taken hers thinking it belonged to David? No, it was more likely that one of Silberman's less competent henchmen had stolen it for himself. It didn't matter. It could be evidence in "an ongoing criminal investigation." As such, it belonged with the people doing the investigating. 

"I need you to do two things for me. First, please get me my laptop." Sharon looked dubious but she complied. "Thank you," Gillian said gratefully. "Now, would you tell Bill that I found David's phone? I have to turn it over to the FBI." 

"I thought you were going to call your kids. I'm positive I have Mark's number." Sharon waved her phone in the air at Gillian. 

"I will but I need to do this first." Her kids were with their dad and they were fine. David was not fine. After opening her laptop, she logged into iCloud. Before going any farther, she glanced up and saw Sharon wasn't moving. "Please." She put her hand on Sharon's arm. "It's important. David's life may be in jeopardy. His phone might hold data that will help the FBI locate him." Or, there could be nothing, a thought which Gillian immediately squelched. 

After Sharon left, she tapped Find My iPhone, selected her device, and waited. It didn't take long to deliver the bad news. "Gillian's iPhone is offline." _Shit_. Reluctantly, she selected Lost Mode and asked Apple to notify her if the phone was found. If the phone had been taken by one of the kidnappers, its location might lead to where David was being held, or at least to someone who knew his whereabouts. 

She closed the laptop and put on her call light.

"What do you need?" The voice on the other end was clipped. "The staff is busy with an emergency." 

Well, it _was_ an emergency room. Gillian leaned over and shut off her IV pump. "Tell my nurse I'm ready to be discharged." She began pulling off the wires that were monitoring her heart, setting off an alarm. That should get someone's attention. If it didn't, she'd rip out the damned IV herself and walk out.

David had assumed that a blind date that began with getting roofied and ended with being kidnapped at gunpoint was going to be the low point of, if not his entire life, at least the rest of the week. He was wrong. This was worse. Much much worse. This time, after being abducted by _fake_ paramedics, instead of waking up in an emergency room with Gillian at his side, he found himself tied to a chair, in a dark room, whereabouts unknown. What sort of criminal mastermind has a troop of phony emergency responders on tap? These goons wore uniforms, they carried I.D. and drove an ambulance. It was a performance realistic enough to breeze past hotel security and give new meaning to the term "organized crime." His neck was stiff. His head throbbed like someone had clocked him. Fuck it, he hurt everywhere.

On the other hand, he wasn't dead, at least not yet. And whoever stashed him here hadn't bothered to gag him. It was a long shot but... "Hello," he shouted as loud as he could. "I need help! Is anyone out there?"

"David. I was wondering when you'd wake up." The voice was weary but familiar. No. It couldn't be. 

"You _motherfucker_. How long have you been here, Jesse?" His question was met with a conspicuous silence. 

David decided he'd better take inventory. Okay. He'd been unconscious when he'd been brought here, which accounted for the stiff neck. Instead of using cuffs or even duct-tape, someone had crossed his arms behind his back and restrained his hands with hard plastic zip-tie, probably the kind anyone could buy at Home Depot. The kidnappers were in too big of a hurry to bother doing anything with his legs. This meant he could move them freely.

He was waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark, when at last Jesse answered him. "I'm not sure. What day is it today?" 

Good question. He'd been at the hotel with Gillian when they'd kidnapped him, that much he knew. That was late afternoon on Monday. He felt thirsty but that could be a side effect of whatever drug he'd ingested. His bladder wasn't full so it couldn't have been more than six or maybe eight hours since he'd urinated. Maybe less. It couldn't hurt to venture a guess. "I think it's still Monday night." 

He shifted in the chair, and tried to move his hands, testing the limits of his restraints. Was it possible? He almost laughed. Could they be that incompetent? 

Jesse sighed. "Okay. They brought me here early this morning, I think. Before the station opened for business." 

Station? What kind of station were they being held in? David's brain starting running through the possibilities: train station, bus station, service station... Wait. The Silbermans owned a pair of Shell gas stations. Bingo. 

Suddenly David recalled the last text he'd received from Jesse. "You told me you'd see me in hell. Was this what you had in mind?" he demanded.

"No. I mean, not exactly. Look, they made me send you those texts. The hell thing was supposed to be a clue." 

"A clue to what? What an idiot you are? And who are 'they'? Who are you working for?" More silence. Who was it that said hell was other people? "Come on, Jesse. Out with it."

"I'm sorry...truly, I am." 

"You're sorry?! What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" 

"Look. At first I didn't know what was going on. I had money problems. Business had plummeted during the recession. I was going to lose my house, the business, Terry was starting high school in a year and the tuition at Crossroads is practically extortion. I needed a loan to tide me over. The legitimate lending institutions were on the ropes so I decided to look into...alternative funding sources."

"Really? How's that working out for you?" David was already sick of his excuses. Regular people who were short of cash tightened their budget and looked for a second job. They didn't borrow money from criminals to pay for private school. _Jesus_.

"Fine. I'll take my shameful secrets to my grave," Jesse said haughtily.

That was a classic. "Is that what this is, a chance for you to confess your sins? I'm not giving you absolution. Take some responsibility." 

"Do you want to hear my story or what?" Jesse said. He sounded somewhat subdued. 

"Yeah, go ahead." This had better be good.

"After I sold the company to MegaCorp, I thought I was in the clear. I could repay the loan shark, even with the exorbitant interest they were charging."

"Go on." 

"They didn't want the money back, they wanted access. Specifically, they wanted classified information about new weapons technology. I didn't have it—that is, until you came to work for us. They threatened my family, David. I'm sorry."

"You said that already." David was baffled. The project he'd been consulting on—he wasn't making a weapon. He wouldn't have done something like that. He wouldn't have gotten anywhere near it. His suspicions about the way the project had evolved were being confirmed. Unfortunately, there was still no proof, no hard evidence, only his gut feeling that something had gone very wrong. That and his having been taken prisoner by an unseen enemy for a nefarious purpose.

Jesse was a whiny, annoying jerk, but maybe he wasn't being entirely fair. David wouldn't willingly help these bastards, but he wasn't immune to coercion, not when it came to his family. Jesse had done bad things but it was from fear: of losing the people he loved, of being responsible for causing them harm. Maybe he had more in common with Jesse than he wanted to admit. Thank God, Téa and the kids were safe and far, far away. 

He couldn't let himself think about what had happened to Gillian. 

"We're not getting out of this alive, are we?" 

His wrists were chaffed and sore from trying to get free, but he was getting close... "How the hell should I know?" he grunted as he squeezed his left hand free of the zip-tie and shook off the restraint. _Finally_. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, and eased out of the chair. Careful not to lose his balance, he stood up and stretched. That was better. Next step, get Jesse moving. "Jesse. Talk to me."

"Why? I've told you everything I know." 

Jesse sounded exhausted. Maybe it was all that lying he'd been doing. David inched his way toward the sound of the man's voice. The room was pitch black and the last thing they needed was for him to trip and break his neck.

"Because we're going to figure out a way out of here."

Jesse snorted. "Right."

"That's it, keep talking." Should he crawl to Jesse? It might be safer. He dropped to his knees and immediately regretted it. Damn. Concrete floors were brutal on cartilage. "Ow. Motherfucker!" 

"What happened?" Jesse said, sounding panicked. 

David stood up and ran his hands slowly along the surface in front of him. "I'm fine. I hit a wall with my head." Or maybe it was a door frame? Eureka! He'd found a light switch. "You might want to close your eyes," David warned, as he flipped the switch, illuminating the room with a cool fluorescent glow. _Let there be light._

Liberating Jesse from his zip-lock bondage was the easy part.

"How did you do that?" Jesse said, rubbing his wrists. 

David didn't blink. "It's simple physics." Most people didn't know the gizmos were reusable. He'd stuck his fingernail in the locking mechanism and pressed down. Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah. 

Finding a way out, part two, had run into a snag. He had guessed right: Jesse confirmed that they were in one of the Shell stations still owned by the Silberman family. They were locked up in a restroom that had been decommissioned and converted into a storage closet. The good news was that lurking behind the cartons of motor oil and boxes of Twinkies, was a working toilet and sink. The bad news was that the walls were thick, there were no windows, and the entry door was locked from the outside with a quality deadbolt. It made David wonder what else the room was used for when it wasn't a holding cell. He didn't ask.

Their only hope for escape was the element of surprise. The kidnappers would assume their captives were still zip-tied to their chairs. They rearranged some boxes to provide cover and switched off the light to wait it out. If these criminals were as ineffectual as David suspected they were, he and Jesse had a shot at slipping past them. If he were a little smarter and was working without a deadline, he might be able to MacGyver a booby-trap from the cardboard boxes, bottles of Formula Shell and assorted Little Debbie snack cakes. Unfortunately, as Jesse explained, before 6:00 am, workers would arrive to open the station for business. Their captors would want them gone long before that happened, which meant they could be back for them at any time. The only warning would be the sound of the key in the deadbolt. 

David was still feeling doped up, and was coming down off a Little Debbie sugar high. Maybe some conversation would help keep him awake if not alert.

"So, how are your kids doing?" Jesse and Sarah had a boy and a girl who were a bit older than David's two. That was all he remembered about them. 

"They're...fine," Jesse said cautiously. "Daniel is in his first year at Berkeley. He's majoring in political science. Thinking about law school."

"Sounds like a smart kid." 

"He is." Jesse cleared his throat. "Mallory is going to be a junior at Crossroads. She's writing for the school paper, volunteering as an after school tutor at a local elementary school—her extra-curriculars take up more time than her academics."

It was a familiar story. One he and Téa wanted to avoid for their kids, if they could.

"What about your two?" Jesse said. 

"The divorce...complicated things. The kids are with Téa and her fiancé this summer." David didn't want to risk telling Jesse where. He hoped he wouldn't ask.

"I didn't realize she was getting remarried," Jesse remarked. 

David hadn't either until he'd gotten the news secondhand from his daughter. She had acted surprisingly mature about it. "Mom is super happy. Tim is a really, really nice guy. And this way, we won't have to worry about Mom getting lonely when we come back to California in the fall." 

Because Téa had accepted the job offer in New York, the court had decided to give him custody during the school year, plus child support. He didn't need the money so he was adding the bulk of it to their college funds. It was a fine plan. The hardest part was going to be surviving every summer without them. This fiasco had taken "surviving" to a whole new level. 

David didn't want to get into it with Jesse. "I'd rather not talk about it." 

Jesse's reply was interrupted by the sound of a key in the lock. David leapt to his feet, and grabbed Jesse. "This is it," he whispered. "Get ready to run."


	8. Isn't It Romantic

The last time she'd been at the Los Angeles field office, it had been for a meeting, a joint task force. She'd been wearing a particularly severe version of her usual black pantsuit and white button-down shirt. Her hair was much shorter and a darker shade of blond. Her makeup minimal, her nails clipped short and buffed rather than polished. It was a uniform, designed to signal authority. It worked. Their report was taken seriously. _She_ was taken seriously, and for a petite, pretty woman in a male-dominated profession, that was never a given. Not now, and certainly not back then.

This meeting had been a complete waste of her time. Maybe it was the hoodie, yoga pants and sandals she was wearing? Yes, finding Dr. Duchovny was a top priority for the FBI. No, they could not disclose to her who they suspected of taking him or for what purpose. His brother and sister had been contacted and so far, there had been no request for ransom. That was a bad sign, ordinarily. Gillian wasn't sure what it meant in this case.

"Thank you, Ms. Anderson, for your cooperation. We'll be in touch." Agent Luevano stood up, signaling the interview was over.

This was too much. He wouldn't even confirm David had been under government surveillance! 

He did hand her another business card to add to her collection. Let's see. She had Deputy Bill's card, plus one from the Santa Monica PD. Agent Marcus Luevano's card made a total of three from the FBI. All she needed now were cards from the LAPD, the NSA, and the newest kid on the block: the Defense Intelligence Agency. According to Deputy Bill, the DIA had taken over investigating the break-in at David's house. She fingered the card. Did she dare stir that pot? "What role is the DIA playing in this case?"

Agent Luevano crossed his arms over his chest. "You know, they don't tell me everything." Seeing her frustration, he softened his stance. "I understand how difficult this must be for you, given your background in law enforcement, and your friendship with the victim. I can tell you that we are doing everything in our power to locate your friend."

She had one other question to ask before she would leave. "What about Crystal MacCluie? And Jesse Silberman? He's a well-known local businessman. He should be easy enough to track down. She's already in custody." 

Agent Luevano stared off in the distance. It might be wishful thinking, but he seemed conflicted. Maybe he was reconsidering? _Please,_ she pleaded silently. _Give me something. Anything._

"Oh, what the hell. You're one of our own. Between you and me, there's no state secrets here." He sat down and with a few taps on his keyboard, brought up a file on his computer. He stared at the screen. "MacCluie has been interrogated several times: once by the Santa Monica P.D., and twice by our agents. She claimed she had no involvement with the break-in at his home, and seemed genuinely surprised that your friend had been kidnapped again. Her 72-hour hold is almost certain to be converted to a 5250." He closed the file and turned back to Gillian. "The bottom line: we couldn't find anything to link her to the current investigation."

Gillian slumped back in her seat. This came as no surprise. Crystal's behavior had been erratic, to say the least. It made sense that it could be from a chemical imbalance in her brain.

"What about Silberman?" Maybe he would provide the break they needed. The threatening messages he'd left on David's phone made it obvious that Jesse was somehow connected. "What did he have to say?"

Agent Luevano's face was somber. "We haven't been able to reach him. According to his wife, Silberman didn't come home last night. Right now I can't do more than speculate but yeah, I think the guy is up to his neck in it. Possibly as a co-conspirator or..." His hands tapped on the keyboard, his eyes scanning another file.

Gillian sat up, suddenly alert. "Or what?"

He turned to face her. "Silberman may have been kidnapped, too."

As soon as she walked into the lobby, Bill and Sharon were out of their seats. Her face must have given away more than she intended because all at once, Sharon was there, holding her, and holding her together. "Oh, honey. Is David...?"

She shook her head. "They don't know anything yet." They walked arm in arm, Bill following a few steps behind, as Agent Luevano escorted them out. 

The ride back to the hospital passed quickly. Sharon and Bill talked quietly in the front seat. Sharon didn't press her for details, which was a relief. Thinking about David was... Fuck. She couldn't think about him now, about what might have happened to him. What they might be doing to him. Tomorrow. She'd think about him tomorrow. Tonight she needed to sleep, assuming she could. 

Bill pulled into the lot and Sharon directed him to her car. As Sharon was unfastening her seat belt, Gillian leaned forward. "Before we head to your house, would you drive me back to the hotel? I'd like to check out early." 

Sharon twisted around to look at Gillian. "Can't it wait 'til morning? Robert didn't give me any grief but I'd rather not push it. It's after midnight. When I called, he made certain I knew he's got an early case." 

Given what had happened, she wasn't looking forward to dealing with the Miramar. She wanted to get it over with, but Sharon was right. "Sure. I can wait." She opened the door and slid out on the driver's side. She tapped lightly on the Bill's window and motioned for him to roll it down. "Thank you. For everything." He was a good guy, if a bit of an enigma. Bill didn't reply. He looked lost in his own thoughts. "Bill?"

"I'll do it," he said suddenly.

"What?" 

"I'll drop you at your hotel. That way, Sharon can get home to her kids. You've got a rental, right?"

"Yes. Isn't it out of your way?" she protested halfheartedly. 

Bill shook his head. "Nah. The beach is, what, five minutes from here? I'll hop on the freeway after I let you off. This time of night, I'll be home in no time."

Sharon looked disappointed but didn't object. "Suit yourself, sweetie. I'll wait up for you." Sharon hugged her. "Drive carefully. If you change your mind, have the doorman call you a cab."

"I will," she promised. 

She climbed into the SUV next to Bill, and fastened her seat belt. "The hotel is at the end of Wilshire Blvd." He nodded and turned the car toward the exit.

"You still have my weapon," she reminded him. Bill had locked it in the glove compartment while they were at the FBI. He thought it would simplify matters and she had given in. "I need to get it back before you let me off."

Bill wasn't listening. He stared at his dashboard display. "Damn. I'm out of gas."

She thought for a moment. "There's a 24 hour station down on Santa Monica." 

"Which way?" Bill said as they approached the intersection.

Gillian tried to visualize it and failed. Shit. "Left. Toward the freeway." She hoped it was still open. She hoped it was still there. She leaned over, trying to get a glimpse of his gauge. "How low are you?" 

"The gas light's on." He let the car coast to a stop at the light.

"Oh. You've got miles to go," she said airily. Bill grunted. 

She should let it go but that wasn't her style. She had to ask him. "I can't help wondering why you're here. Telling me about the DIA, warning me about David being under surveillance. That was puzzling enough. Next, you show up at my bedside, now you're acting as my personal chauffeur. What gives?" 

Uh oh. Bill's panic face was back. "I'd planned to tell you," he muttered. "I don't know why I didn't say something when I first recognized you. Later on, I guess those DIA guys spooked me."

She wasn't sure what answer she was expecting but this wasn't it. "What are you trying to say to me?" 

Bill's eyes stayed glued to the road. "Okay. I didn't hand over my case notes because I thought you were a good cop—although I do—or because I was pissed off at having the case taken away—though I am."

"I'm listening." This had better be worth the wait.

"I'm Eleanor's oldest son." 

Bill obviously expected her to recognize the name. Gillian tried to come up with a face, anything to jog her memory. "I'm sorry. I don't know who that is." 

"My mother, Eleanor, is Greg's oldest sister."

Of course. Her partner Greg came from a huge family, and had numerous nieces and nephews. Had she ever known that one of those nephews ended up in law enforcement? Probably not. She would have taken a bullet for her partner, exactly the way he did for her, but they hadn't talked much, not about their personal lives. She knew exactly how he liked his coffee, the name of his favorite band, and could still list his top five movies. She couldn't recall how many sisters Greg had, let alone their names. 

Gillian swallowed hard. "Wow. What are the odds? Of you being assigned to that case, I mean. So, you did recognize me, just not from the news coverage like you said?" She tried to keep the emotion out of her voice.

He stole a quick glance. "No, that part was true too, it just wasn't the whole story. I asked to be assigned to the case. So it wasn't a complete coincidence or a random event." 

Gillian pondered this. "Okay, but you still haven't explained why you're here with me now?" 

He winced. "I've been asking myself that question. Telling you about the DIA was an impulsive act, and it could still get me fired. I think I did it because it's what my uncle would have wanted, what he would have expected of me."

Or not. Bill's admiration for his late uncle was sincere, but she had been the rebel without a cause in their partnership. Greg preferred to go by the book. Gillian colored outside the lines; Greg had gently—or not so gently—pulled her back in. 

"The worst thing I did was giving you that hard copy. That's what they'd can me for," he said, sounding disgusted with himself. 

Shit. She'd completely forgotten about the envelope. "The agents at the hospital didn't say anything. Agent Luevano didn't mention it up in the interview," she offered. Where had she put it? "Maybe it's still in my messenger bag." Which was with the rest of her luggage, in the back of the Escape. 

She was about to ask him to pull over so she could check when Deputy _Nephew_ Bill changed lanes and braked for the light. "That filling station you thought would be open, it wouldn't happen to be a Shell station, would it? Because it's closed." He paused, a little melodramatically, Gillian thought, and gestured to the business across the intersection. "That might not be a bad thing. Take a look." 

Gillian surveyed the station. The rows of fuel dispensers were lit dimly, ditto for inside the store. Only the bright red and yellow neon signs were fully lit, with the name of the business in tall block lettering: SHELL. Except in this case, it spelled HELL. The 'S' light had gone on the blink. Despite everything, Gillian couldn't help but smile. It was a perfect summation of the day. FUCKED UP would work too, but she wasn't likely to see that in neon. Although, it wouldn't be a bad name for, say, a biker bar.

Bill grinned. "That's damned funny, pardon the pun." He cleared his throat. "We still need gas, unfortunately."

Gillian racked her brain. "There's another station just a few miles away. Maybe that's the one I was thinking of." 

"Maybe?" He looked again at the gas gauge then over at her. 

Damn. There was something about that sign. She stared at it again. "I'm sure." She wasn't. "There should be something once we get to the freeway."

Bill sighed. "You'd think so but this town closes up shop at ten."

She remembered that part.

Progress was slow. The city of Los Angeles had their traffic lights timed so that they had to stop every few blocks. In the daytime, it wouldn't matter since traffic moved at a near crawl anyway. But at this time of day, it was making her antsy. She was already jittery from lack of sleep. Sleep. God. How long had it been since she'd had a full night's sleep? At least she'd been able to talk to her kids briefly on Sharon's mobile while driving to the FBI field office. She'd apologized and promised them a longer call tonight. Come hell or high water, she was keeping that promise.

Fuck. There it was again—that sensation. Had she overlooked something important, something about David's kidnapping? Whenever she thought about him, about what had happened to him, it began all over again: the fluttering in her chest, the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. But this was different, and she had to make sense of it. 

"Are we getting close?" Bill said, while they were idling at yet another stoplight. "I'm not sure how long the gas light has been on. I wasn't paying attention driving over."

She looked around, hoping to see something she recognized. "I'm not sure. Could you check your phone? Maybe there's an app for it?" 

"Could be but I usually just fill up at the station by my house. So, did Agent Luevano tell you anything new?" Bill said. 

She quickly filled him in on what she'd found out. He was surprised to hear that Silberman had gone missing as well. He was astonished that Agent Luevano had told her about it. "Does every guy automatically answer every question you ask him?" 

Gillian snorted. "Hardly." He should know better than that. What did he think this was, an episode of _The Closer_? "I didn't have much luck getting information out of David." 

"Why do you suppose that is?" Bill said in a neutral tone. 

Why indeed. "Because he never intended to tell me the truth. Because I didn't ask the right questions." She'd had the chance to get answers but instead she'd spent half the afternoon flirting with him. Her face grew warm thinking about it. God, what was wrong with her. Despite herself, she had to have learned something useful. She wasn't a complete incompetent. What had he told her about Jesse Silberman? She needed to remember every word, every phrase. Fuck it. She needed her notepad. 

"What do you wish you asked him? What are we missing here?" Bill said. 

"Well, we don't know why David quit working for Silberman. We don't know why Silberman was so damned frantic to get David back on the project. Who was pressuring Silberman? The man left message after message on David's mobile. That's why I wanted to get it to the FBI." Gillian shuddered. "The last text was so messed up." 

"How so?"

"I don't know how to describe it. It was bizarre. It started the same as they all did, pleading for David to come back. But he ended it with, 'I'll see you in hell.' Such strange choice of words."

"That's not your garden variety curse," Bill agreed. "It's like he was putting the whammy on David." 

The whammy? Gillian started rifling through her handbag, searching for her notes. Damn. The notepad was probably in the messenger bag, too. 

"I think David told me that the Silbermans owned a pair of Shell stations. I know this is a long shot, but maybe Jesse wrote that last text after he'd been taken captive. Maybe it wasn't meant as a threat after all. It could be that he was trying to send a signal." It made some kind of sense, at least to her. 

"I'm afraid I'm not following you." He swerved and changed lanes again. "Look. There's an Exxon on the left side of the street."

"That's good." She had to get word to Agent Luevano and convince him to send backup. Yeah, right. She'd have better luck calling 9-1-1. Her best shot at getting help for David was sitting right next to her. 

"Bill. I need you to turn the car around," she commanded. 

"What? Why?" Bill sputtered. "You do realize I'm running on fumes here." He stopped at the light just before the freeway on ramp. "I don't believe this! The Exxon is closed, too."

Of course it was. "Look. We've only gone a couple of miles." It only felt as though they'd been driving forever. "You've got more than enough gas to get back there." 

"Back where?" Bill was losing patience. She couldn't blame him, but she had to stay focused. Everything depended on it. 

It didn't matter if she was right. Without hard evidence that David was being held in the HELL station, the FBI would insist on a warrant to search the premises. Well, she was a civilian now and trespassing was only a misdemeanor in California. 

Wait. Maybe there was another way. 

"Bill. I need to use your mobile."

"My mobile what?"

Damn it. "I meant your phone. I need your cell." 

"You're calling AAA to tell them we're out of gas, right?" he said, as he handed her the phone. 

"Nope." She dialed 4-1-1, local directory assistance. "Residence," she replied to the computer's query. "Jesse. Silberman." She made sure to enunciate every syllable. "West Los Angeles or Santa Monica." When the voice asked if she wanted the call to go through for an additional charge, she answered, "Yes," and waited for it to ring.

"Hello? Is this about my husband? Is it about Jesse?" As Gillian suspected, Mrs. Silberman was waiting by the phone. 

_You know your hunch is right_ , Gillian reminded herself. _Just do it._ "Hello, Mrs. Silberman. My name is Gillian Anderson. I'm an agent with Tactical Executive Security. "I've figured out where they're holding your husband." It wouldn't be trespassing if she got the owner's permission first. 

"What are you doing?" Bill demanded. 

Gillian waved him off. "Yes. I'm headed there now with a Los Angeles County sheriff. There's no time to explain. I need you to meet us at your Shell Station on Santa Monica Blvd., the one that spells out 'HELL.'" 

She could do this. She could save him. She could save David.

"Bill. I need you to trust me."

The sound of the key in the lock seemed to go on forever, although it couldn't have been more than a second or two. There wasn't enough time for a life review, or even to think of his last words, assuming he got to say anything. He was no longer certain that an escape attempt was the best course of action. He did think he would regret not trying. Bullshit. He might regret it either way. It all depended on the outcome.

He had made up his mind about one thing: he wasn't going to waste any more of his life on "what-ifs." That was then. This is now. If he got a second chance with Gillian, he was going all in. 

When the door opened at last, he wasn't surprised to see men with guns. He was shocked to discover that they were the good guys. He shouldn't have been surprised that it was Gillian who deciphered Jesse's message and engineered their rescue from 'HELL.' 

They let Jesse's wife see him before they whisked him away in an ambulance. He, on the other hand, barely got a glimpse of Gillian before they marched him off to be interrogated. She seemed different, somehow. He felt worried about her without knowing why, but there was nothing he could do. It wasn't like he was given a choice. 

He told the government men everything he knew, answered every question he could plus a few they didn't ask. Maybe it would make a difference in the long run. By the time the FBI got to the warehouse housing David's old lab, it was mostly cleaned out. The DIA took custody of what remained, including his precious bees. They quarantined the site, sequestered the staff for debriefing, and declared the entire project "Classified." 

After hours of questioning by the FBI, the NSA, and the DIA, they let him go. Before releasing David, Agent Luevano had conferred with the other agents. The current consensus: the bad guys had left town, and that it was probably safe for him to return home, for now. 

"We will have your residence under surveillance. However, we can't guarantee your safety without putting you into protective custody." 

David shook his head. "I don't think so."

Agent Luevano frowned. "That's your choice, but it might not be a bad idea to make yourself scarce for awhile. Do you have somewhere else you can go?" 

David allowed that he might. If it turned out that he was wrong, he'd figure something out. 

To his surprise, when Agent Luevano escorted him to the lobby of the Federal Building, Gillian was waiting for him. There was a tall, good-looking man wearing a gun and holster standing next to her.

"David. Thank God, you're okay." There was a slight catch in her voice when she said his name. When she held out her arms, he wanted to fall at her feet. He embraced her, marveling all over again at how right she felt in his arms. 

"Yeah. I'm fine." He planted a kiss on the top of her head. She held him tighter and nuzzled his belly with her chin. There was so much more he wanted to say, needed to say. He settled for stroking her hair.

To his surprise, she pulled away and turned to Agent Luevano. "Thank you. For listening to me. For doing what needed to get done. For everything." 

"It's Marcus, remember? Hey, you were very persuasive. If you hadn't taken the initiative, we'd still be looking for them." 

She smiled. After they shook hands, there was an exchange of shoptalk which he tuned out. Finally she turned back to David. "I'm tired." He suspected there was more to it than that. Figuring out what would have to wait. She knew more or less what had happened to him. He had no idea what she'd gone through after he was abducted from the hotel room. 

He took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Me, too. Let's get out of here." 

She refused to go back to her hotel, which was logical. David thought the pull-out sofa at Sharon's place sounded cramped. He wanted to sleep in his own bed. After some tense discussion, Bill drove them back to David's truck which was still parked in the Santa Monica city lot. She had evidently decided to take the FBI's word that the bad guys were on the run. Her buddy Bill had not and insisted on following them back. 

It took him awhile but David finally placed him. Bill McCullough was the deputy they had talked to the night of the break-in, the investigating officer. "The cute sheriff." He made a mental note to ask Gillian why Deputy Bill kept showing up everywhere she went. 

It was mid-morning by the time he turned off Pacific Coast Highway and headed up the canyon. Traffic was light. He kept looking over at Gillian, half-expecting her to pick up where they'd left off and ask more questions he didn't want to answer. She gave him a tiny smile when he caught her eye, which was reassuring. 

There were a few remnants of police tape fluttering in the brush. He pulled the truck up close to the house to leave room for Bill's vehicle. After getting Gillian's bags out of the back, he went around to the passenger side to help her out. She was already climbing down but she accepted his hand and followed him to the house, past the humming observation hive, and up the stairs to his room. 

She refused a washcloth and didn't want her toothbrush. "Later," she mumbled, clinging to his hand even after she'd collapsed onto the mattress. He crouched beside her, unwilling to force the issue. Fortunately for his knees, it wasn't long before she relaxed her grip. He stood up, grimacing and silently cursing the unfortunate evolutionary design of the human skeletal system. After pulling the sheet over her, he watched for a few seconds to make certain she was asleep. 

Next on his agenda: checking in with Deputy Bill. When David opened the front door, Bill was sitting on the top step, staring down at his phone. 

"How's it going?" David said.

Bill put the phone away and stood up, stretching. "Fine, so far. I checked the perimeter, looked in your outbuildings. I drove up the block, circled back. I didn't see anything suspicious." His eyes continued to scan the yard. "I understand you've got a couple of kids?"

David sighed. His personal life was now part of an open federal investigation. "Yeah, I have a son and a daughter. They're spending the summer with their mother."

"The entire summer?" Bill sounded surprised. He must be unfamiliar with custodial arrangements between parents who lived in different states.

"She lives in New York now, so..." He shrugged. "It seemed like the best option under the circumstances."

Bill narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "Does your ex know what you've gotten yourself mixed up in?"

"Not precisely, no." Don't get defensive, he told himself. It's not personal. When was he supposed to have informed her, exactly? "I thought the less she knew, the better it would be for everyone." And now that the investigation was officially classified, he couldn't tell her anything even if he wanted to, not without violating several federal statutes. 

He couldn't tell anyone the truth, not even Gillian. 

Bill surveyed the yard a third time. "Before your kids get back, I hope you'll put in some decent security measures. A state of the art alarm system. A fence. You don't even own a dog."

"I do own a dog," David protested. "Two dogs, actually. The kids wanted the dogs with them. They're spending the summer in New York." 

Bill nodded sagely. "Two dogs. Well, that's a start. Listen, I've got to go, but there's one more thing." He paused to make sure he had David's full attention. _What a smug bastard,_ David thought. "Take care of your girlfriend." 

"Gillian's not my girlfriend," David began.

He held up his hand. "Fine. Your _friend_. It's none of my business," he emphasized. "Gillian is a very special person. You know what I'm saying." 

Gillian is "a special person"? Given that she'd saved his ass three times in as many days, he wasn't going to argue with that. "Okay. I get your point." Was he missing something here?

"You've both got my card. She can call me any time, day or night," he emphasized. "Give her my best." Bill turned and began walking back to his vehicle. 

"Wait. There's something I'd like to ask you." Maybe he was out of line, but it seemed obvious that Deputy Bill wasn't there in his role as an officer of the law.

Bill pivoted back. "Okay. Shoot." 

"I'm just curious. What's your connection to Gillian?" It wasn't an unreasonable question.

"Hey, no problem," Bill looked mildly amused, David noted. "Her partner, Greg, was my uncle, my mom's youngest brother. If you want to know anything else, you should ask Gillian. It's her story to tell, not mine."

David climbed the stairs to his bedroom, feeling more muddled than enlightened. So Bill was Greg's nephew. And Greg was Gillian's partner—her partner in what, exactly? She had mentioned the guy's name, he remembered that much. He'd intended to followup but more urgent matters, like survival, had taken precedence. He would need to remedy that oversight but not now.

Even with the shades down, there was enough natural light to watch her sleep. Her hair had fallen out the loose braid into which she'd fastened it—was it really only yesterday afternoon? He had to restrain himself from brushing it away from her face. She had turned onto her left side but migrated toward the right side of the bed. One arm cradled her head, the other lay next to her on the mattress. 

He debated whether or not to sleep next to her, deciding, finally, that sparing her the anxiety of waking up alone in a strange bed was worth the awkwardness that might follow from her waking up next to him. Quietly, he shucked off his jeans and pulled on a pair of sweats. Careful not to disturb her, he slipped under the sheet and turned to face her. Tired as he was, sleeping was impossible, perhaps because he was still feeling the adrenaline from the rescue. He plumped up the remaining pillow and tried to rearrange himself without jostling her. It was more likely that his heart was racing because of her. Much more likely.

He'd forgotten what it was like. The heightening of all of his senses, the rush of arousal, the almost overwhelming desire for physical closeness. He wanted to know everything she was thinking, everything about her life, past and present. He was near enough to see the fine lines around her eyes and mouth, but they only added to her beauty. He could count her freckles. He could caress the tiny mole above her lips, if he only dared. The signs were unmistakable: he was completely enthralled with this woman. 

It was the mole that was nearly his undoing. He knew he was making too much of it. He was a scientist, a trained observer, and until this moment, he had not seen the damned mole. So what? The real problem was the way his obsessive guilt had turned into myopic self-absorption, blocking out everything and everyone. It had destroyed his marriage, and that was the least of his sins. 

Call it destiny or fate. Call it kismet. Against all odds, a smart, beautiful and fearless woman had saved him from the worst mistake of his life. This same amazing woman was lying right here at his side, in his bed, sleeping peacefully. Whether he deserved it or not, she trusted him. There was evidence suggesting she had developed feelings for him as well. It felt like a goddamned miracle—and he did not believe in miracles. And yet—at some point, he had to stop second-guessing himself, and take a chance on happiness. 

Why not now?


	9. This Can't Be Love

Waking up alone was something David had never gotten used to. His therapist was happy about his newfound solitude. She thought a summer without the kids would be "a growth experience," a chance to take stock and reflect, so he could begin to move forward. It was plain that she was tired of him wallowing in misery. The series of misadventures he'd shared with Gillian wasn't what Dr. Delaney had in mind. But he did feel liberated, at least temporarily, from the guilt he'd been carrying for so long. Confession truly was good for the soul. But now he had to make amends, beginning, he hoped, with Gillian.

He found her downstairs, lounging on the deck, drinking something out of a coffee mug and reading. She'd put on an Angels baseball cap and enormous sunglasses that covered up half of her face. He didn't know what to call her outfit. It was sleeveless, short and made of a flowered material, with a little collar and a dozen tiny buttons running down the front. The top three buttons were unfastened. The image of her undressing for him, button by button, popped into his brain. Her legs and feet were bare, her toenails were painted bright red. 

God, he was in trouble. 

"Hi," he managed at last. 

She looked up from her book. "Hi, yourself." Her tone was friendly if noncommittal. He squinted, wishing he could see her eyes. After their reunion, she had been affectionate and warm. Now she seemed...distant. He needed to know why.

"You made coffee." This was a totally normal thing to do right after waking up. Except the last time he'd been in the kitchen, it had looked like a crime scene. Correction: it _was_ a crime scene. He'd been considering making a coffee run and cleaning up later.

"I did." she said. "You want some?" 

"Yeah. Sure." He should say something about the mess. He hadn't forgotten it, he just hadn't gotten around to it.

She stood up and held out her hand. Feeling relieved, he took it and followed her back into the house. Yep, just holding her hand was speeding up his heart rate.

To his surprise, the kitchen had been straightened up. The cabinets were closed, the counters looked clean, the blood on the kitchen tile had been wiped up. Only the oak table and chairs were out of place. He sniffed. It smelled like...

"Pine-Sol," Gillian said. "I couldn't find the bleach."

"I don't know what to say. Thank you." As usual, she was two steps ahead of him. It was a little disconcerting, given that _he_ had been instructed to take care of _her_.

"The table was too heavy for me to budge." She looked at him, then at the table, then back at him. 

The other night, she'd managed to flip it without any help, with bullets flying in the background. "Come on. I'll give you a hand." Together, they rotated the table back onto its legs. As she was reaching for one of the chairs, he put a hand on her arm. "Just leave it. How about if I grab some coffee, you go back for your cup, and I'll meet you in the living room?" 

She didn't look pleased but she didn't object. David poured his coffee into a ceramic mug and headed for the sofa. He sat down on the far end, just the way he had the night she'd driven him home, the night they'd met. Their first date had not ended well. So far, there hadn't been a second date. They'd kissed twice, but that hadn't gone as planned either. They had both made romantic declarations, kind of. Maybe. She had wanted to have sex with him. He was certain of that much. 

He'd lost at least one day which meant he wasn't sure if it was still Tuesday. He looked at his phone's display. It was Tuesday. That meant they'd known each other for nearly three days. And, much of that time had been spent in the local emergency room. 

It hadn't exactly been a normal courtship. 

He took a sip of coffee. It wasn't bad. He took another sip and set the cup down on the end table. He was nervous, and with good reason. The last thing he needed was to spill hot coffee on himself. 

He perked up when she entered the room. Naturally, she chose the end of the sofa farthest from him, folding her legs up neatly underneath her. If he tried to sit like that he'd probably sprain something. 

"Yoga," she said. "That's how I stay flexible." She was reading his mind _again_. How did she do that? 

"Biking. Swimming. Running, of course." Her puzzled expression stopped his recitation. "Sorry. I assumed we were comparing fitness routines." 

"You did not assume any such thing. Come on. Tell the truth." She smiled as she said it, because she had no idea what she was asking.

The truth? He wanted to tell her the truth: about the project, about why his marriage failed and how he'd ruined his life. Except he couldn't tell her about the former and the latter was inextricably tied to the work. He was so fucked. And he was still making it all about him. 

All at once, she bridged the distance between them. "David, what's wrong?" She knelt in front of him, and took his hand in hers. "You're scaring me." She kissed his hand, put it against her cheek. Her skin was so soft and so cool. "Talk to me." 

What was he supposed to say? She already knew what a mess he'd made of his life. Except...maybe that was the point. If he acted weak and needy, she could swoop in and make him feel better, which made her feel stronger. No wonder she was drawn to him. His endless rounds of self-recrimination must be irresistible. She wanted to keep rescuing him. It explained her earlier behavior, too. Last night she'd been so exhausted that she'd let down her guard and let him take care of her for a little while. That had made her feel exposed and vulnerable. 

He knew this was not good. and damn it, she knew it, too. She was not going to like getting a lecture on how to form healthy relationships from a man who had just gone through a messy divorce.

Maybe it didn't matter to her. Maybe she just wanted to have a good time and fly back to London on Friday as scheduled, alone. Confirming that would make him feel like shit, but he had learned the hard way that you couldn't make unpleasant facts go away by pretending they didn't exist. 

They needed to have The Talk. 

He motioned for her to sit next to him. Instead getting back on the couch and sitting still, she curled up in his arms and began rubbing his chest in slow circles. It felt fantastic, naturally. 

"Um. Maybe we shouldn't be doing this." He was a master at using sex to avoid conflict himself. He recognized the moves.

"Doing what?" she said, while planting kisses along his jawline. 

He was going to have to say _No_. A weakly phrased equivocation wasn't going to do it. What came out of his mouth instead was a low moan, followed by, "Oh, God."

She must have taken this as an invitation because the next thing he knew, she'd straddled his lap and was leaning in for a kiss. The problem was obvious: he wanted her to keep going. He wanted her to undo the rest of her buttons so he could taste her breasts, for a start. His cock was casting its own vote for the affirmative. 

No. It was still a bad idea. He put his hands on her shoulders and held her gaze. "Gillian, stop." He added, "Please. We have to talk."

Gillian listened as best she could to David's extended play version of "It's not you, it's me." She wasn't handling recent events well at all. She'd felt vulnerable and had withdrawn to lick her wounds. Then she overcompensated, acted like an over-sexed teenager and scared him off. There was no way to salvage this now. The best thing to do was apologize, gather her belongings and leave quietly. It looked as though she was headed to Sharon's sofa-bed tonight after all.

She didn't want to leave. From what he was saying, if she left now, she might never get to see him again. She wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. This was not an option, however. For one thing, her rental was still in the valet lot of the hotel, racking up charges. She was going to have call someone to drive her back into Santa Monica to get it. Her phone was still MIA so she'd need to borrow David's or ask him to drive her. 

"...though Agent Luevano thought it was safe for me to stay here for now, he did say that I might want to skip town for awhile. Just in case. Since my kids are with their mom through the middle of August, if I did find a last-minute house swap, I could conceivably come to London. If you wanted me to come, that is." 

"Wait." She'd been so busy feeling sorry for herself that she'd tuned him out. "Can you say that again?" 

"Which part? I've said a lot of things," David said. He leaned back, one perfectly shaped arm slung casually over the top of the sofa. Damn him. No one had the right to look this good wearing a ratty T-shirt and Dad jeans. 

Gillian uncrossed her legs and moved imperceptibly closer to him. "The last part, the last...paragraph." He did speak in paragraphs, complete with topic sentences, supporting arguments and correct punctuation. "The part where you talked about coming to London." His unhealthy relationship lecture was boring and stupid, to say nothing of a little premature. They hadn't even had sex yet! However, she loved the idea of him coming to visit her in London. She must have misunderstood. He wasn't giving her the brushoff. 

"You'd like a recap?" David cleared his throat and sat up straighter. "Since I've decided to leave LA until the coast is clear—no pun intended—I thought perhaps I could spend the summer in London. There is an active urban beekeeping community there that I could network with. There are always academics looking to swap houses for a term. LA is a popular destination. Even if I can't do an exchange, I wouldn't need much space—a studio apartment or a bedsit would do fine." He stopped talking and leaned toward her. His expression turned wistful. "It would give us a chance to get to know one another under more normal circumstances. I want that chance for us." 

Us. She liked that word. "Yes. I want that chance for us, too." She shifted a wee bit closer to him. "I guess this means you're not breaking up with me?" She kept her expression serious and let her voice quiver a bit. 

David's jaw dropped. "No. God, no. I'm sorry if I gave you that impression. I'm, I'm..."

Gotcha. "That's a relief. Now, just to be clear. From the moment I set eyes on you, I wanted you. I do not have a history of being attracted to men who need rescuing, so you had better get that out of your head." She glared at him, daring him to contradict her. 

David looked skeptical but he didn't argue. "Okay. Go on."

He wasn't wrong about everything. That had to be acknowledged, too. "I do have a need to feel in control. This... This has been hard, harder than I expected or could have predicted. I thought I had gotten over something, something from my past—" She couldn't do it. She couldn't talk to David about Greg. Not now. It would have to wait. She held out her hand to David. 

He clasped her hand in his and moved closer. "I'm listening."

"Sometimes I just need some time to regroup. It doesn't mean I don't care for you, because I do. Very much."

He held her for a long time, until her tears stopped. Her breathing slowed.

"Gillian?"

Yup, just as he thought. She'd fallen asleep. Oh, well. There was no hurry. He felt confident now, that they were going to be together for a long time.

And he was right.

  



	10. My Romance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to know what happened next. So I wrote another chapter.

Being in David's arms made her feel warm and safe. She'd even fallen asleep, to her chagrin. It also made her very aware of her attraction to him. Very aware. Having his hands in her hair and stroking her back had led inevitably to her thinking about his hands touching other places. She felt sensitized, as though the slightest touch in the right spot would make her... God, she had to stop thinking about having sex with him. She just didn't see how she was going to do that, not while he was rubbing her shoulders and nuzzling her head with his chin. She'd had no idea that the top of her head was an erogenous zone.

"That feels so good," she murmured, stretching a little. He gave a great upper body massage, without her having to remove a stitch of clothing. Not that she was opposed to doing that. 

"Hey there, sleepyhead." He kissed the top of her head. "It's supposed to feel good. You want me to keep going?" he said.

"Yes." Of course she did. She wanted to pick up where they'd left off yesterday. Things had just started getting interesting when events had overtaken them. She had even kind of liked getting swept off her feet. A romantic cliché to be sure, but it had worked in the moment. She had wanted to be enraptured by his love-making, and, naturally, enrapture him in turn. 

Maybe he was feeling the same way? Earlier, he'd been receptive to her advances, up until he wasn't. The danger had passed, they were both on the same page. Now it was a question of when, not if. Should she let him make the next move? Perhaps he was waiting for her to say something. She usually did, sooner rather than later.

"Well, we had our talk," she said, testing the waters. 

"We did," he said, continuing to massaging her shoulders and neck. It felt fantastic. She attempted to send a telepathic message, signaling for him to move his hands just a little lower. 

"We've settled some things. Important things," she ventured. It was true. They had, she reassured herself. Except, yesterday they had been on the verge of making love for the first time. Right now, it felt like they weren't going to make it past first base. Wait. He's massaging her upper arms now. Her breasts are waiting and eager. His hands just need to reach around... 

"Baby, you're so tense." Damn. He returned his attention to the _tense_ muscles in her back and neck. 

"What I don't understand is why I feel so awkward now when I was feeling so good blubbering on your shoulder." _Fuck._ Why had she said that? She wanted him to get into her pants, not into her head. 

He stopped the massage and turned to face her. "I'm an entomologist not a therapist." A _Star Trek_ reference, she noted, with mild amusement. "And, I'm out of practice at this dating thing, but isn't some awkwardness to be expected? We'll have the rest of the summer. We can take this as slow as we want."

Oh, God. That's what she'd been afraid of: that he would want to wait until they were in London to take things to the next level. Today was Tuesday, so that left Wednesday and Thursday here in Los Angeles. Her flight left early on Friday, she'd be jet-lagged on Saturday, and busy with her children the rest of the weekend. That meant Monday would be the earliest possible day that they could have sex, and that was only if he got on a flight between now and then. Six days and seven nights. 

Six days. Seven nights.

Maybe she should just go ahead and suggest that they have sex today. The worst thing that could happen would be he'd say no. If he did, she'd deal. 

She fiddled with the buttons on her romper. On the other hand, if she told him she wanted sex, he might interpret that as her trying to take control, rather than letting the relationship develop naturally. Damn it. This was so unfair. Men never had to deal with this bullshit. It was just assumed that they were up for sex 24-7, which she conceded had its own downside. 

David certainly had plenty of romantic baggage. The last three days had been extraordinarily stressful, especially for him. Maybe this was his way of signaling that he needed more time. She could give him that. 

"Slow is good," she said, caressing his upper arm with her fingertips. It was fair to say that she was obsessed by his arms. He answered with another kiss, this time on her forehead. Maybe if she tilted up her face, he'd take the hint. It always worked in the movies.

"Since woman cannot live on coffee alone, I was wondering if you wanted to get some dinner? I was able to fill up on Little Debbie snack cakes during my time in 'Hell,' followed by stale doughnuts courtesy of the United States government, but you haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon..." 

"I could eat. Do you have some place in mind?" As long as he didn't want to go back to Rustic Canyon, she was up for anything.

"I do. Do you have sturdy walking shoes? It's an easy hike but you'll want something to protect your feet."

She nodded. "Yes." She could wear her new trainers. With their neon laces and rainbow colored soles, they seemed perfect for a vacation at the beach. Alas, she'd only had the chance to wear them once, on her first date with David. Maybe it was a good omen?

"Great. I'd prefer to stay away from restaurants and other enclosed spaces for awhile." He looked away as he said it. The confession made her heart hurt. "How would you feel about a picnic?"

"That sounds wonderful." 

She could tell he was trying not to laugh when she appeared downstairs wearing her rainbow Asics. "These are serious trainers," she insisted, pointing out the technical features. He caved on the shoes but made her go back and change into long pants. She settled on cropped boyfriend jeans and a white button-down shirt from her work wardrobe. She knotted the shirttails at her waist, rolled up the sleeves, and after a quick look in the mirror, unbuttoned the top three buttons.

After a stop at funky little cafe for supplies, he turned off Highway 27 up a narrow winding canyon road, with hairpin turns that had her gripping her armrest. "Shortcut," was his explanation, as he pulled the truck onto the shoulder. There were a half dozen other cars parked on either side of the road.

She toted the food plus two bottles of green tea, which he'd transferred into an Army surplus knapsack. He slung an ancient canteen around his neck (that he'd filled up with water before they'd left), and carried a battered looking mover's blanket that he had stashed in the back of the truck. He was wearing well broken-in boots, a faded gray T-shirt, and shapeless khaki trousers. It didn't matter what he wore, she had watched the Naked Truth video enough times that she could mentally undress him. 

The trailhead was unmarked but David knew exactly where he was headed. The trail itself was dry and dusty, wide enough to drive a truck through and not particularly strenuous, she was relieved to see. He shortened his stride so that they could walk in tandem. At the first trail fork, they headed left. After another half mile up a slight grade, they arrived at the top of the vista. They were high above the Pacific Ocean, with a view that went on for miles and miles. Far to the east, across the mountain range, she could spot the high-rises of downtown. If it had been a clear day, she was sure they'd be able to see all the way to Catalina Island. 

"David. It's beautiful here. Thank you for bringing me up here." It was breathtaking.

"Mostly it's locals who know how to find it."

He spread out the blanket, took the knapsack from her and motioned for her to sit. After he joined her on the blanket, he handed her a bottle of tea and one of the veggie wraps. "I know I put napkins in here somewhere," he muttered, rummaging through the pack. "Here you go." He handed her a flimsy paper napkin and took one for himself. 

The wraps were better than she'd expected: chopped vegetables, avocado, soft whole wheat tortillas. The bottled tea was...bottled tea. The walk had made her thirsty; she drained the bottle and looked around for the canteen. 

"Do you come here often?" she asked. 

David took the canteen back from her and took a long drink. "It's great for mountain biking. One of the trails goes all the way to the ocean. It's the only park in the area where dogs are allowed. We used to come up here with Spence and Kirby." 

By "we" Gillian assumed he meant his ex. "Spence and Kirby. They sound like a vaudeville act."

He screwed the cap back on the bottle. "They're 19th century entomologists, actually. Friends and colleagues who collaborated on one of the seminal volumes in my field." 

Oops. "Sorry." She watched as he silently put their trash away into the knapsack.

"What are you apologizing for? There's no reason you would have recognized the names." He sighed. "I know I'm acting moody."

Too true. He stared out at the ocean, his brow furrowed. "What is it? You can talk to me." 

When he didn't answer, she decided to wait him out. Sometimes the best way to get someone to open up was to say nothing at all. 

"You are aware that the investigation and everything related to it, including my work for Silberman, has been classified," he said, finally. 

She'd been told as much by Agent Luevano while David was being interviewed by the alphabet soup of agencies which had become embroiled in the case. 

"So, technically, I can't talk to anyone about this." He looked at her hard. "But I'd like to explain why I quit working for Jesse—I think you at least deserve to know that."

She didn't like the sound of this one bit. It wasn't that she didn't want to know: she wanted to know everything about his life. That was no longer possible, she now realized. There would always be secrets between them. It was difficult to begin an intimate relationship under these conditions. 

That wasn't the worst of it. Intentionally revealing classified information to someone without the right to know was a federal crime. She no longer had that right. Putting her hand on his arm, she said, "Stop. Let's think about this. Maybe you shouldn't tell me." 

He grimaced. "Yeah, I'm sorry. I don't know what I was thinking." 

He had the same haunted look in his eyes that he'd had after their run-in with Silberman. She couldn't let him go back to that dark place. "Can you tell me without divulging anything sensitive? Just give me the gist of what happened, but without the details?" 

He sighed. "There was, let's call it an incident, at the lab. One of the technicians nearly died. There was no way that should have happened, not under the working conditions and research protocols I had set up. Somehow, right under my nose, the project was subverted. I don't know by whom. I don't have any proof. And if that's not bad enough, I think the government may have known what was happening." His shoulders were hunched over with his head in his hands. 

She reached out to touch his shoulder. He was blaming himself because it had happened on his watch. She had done the same thing when Greg died. She didn't want to make matters worse but she had to ask. "Why do you suspect the government is involved?" 

He shook his head. "There was something off. The way they reacted when I told them about Jae—it was like they already knew."

He had to know how ridiculous that sounded. "Come on. That's a bit of a leap." 

He turned and stared her down. "Okay. Fine. Here's the other reason for my suspicions. I wasn't going to say anything yet but they offered me a research position."

She was taken aback. "Where? Why?"

"DARPA. Where else? As to why, I think they just want to keep an eye on me, don't you? I'm the 'Man Who Knew Too Much.'" 

She tried not to panic. "You turned it down, of course." He'd told her that he would never work on a weapons project. His kids were coming back to California before school started. He was a beekeeper now.

He looked away. "No. Not yet. I told them I would think about it." 

"David. I don't understand." She struggled to keep the fear out of her voice.

"I thought I'd better keep my options open. The more I think about it, the more paranoid I feel. I'm worried that if I were to turn them down flat, they might keep me from leaving with you. They could take my passport, put me on the No-Fly list."

"David, no. How could they do that?" 

But she knew the truth, they both did. The government could do exactly that—with no explanation or warning, let alone due process. David could arrive at an airport and be told he couldn't board the plane. It could happen here in Los Angeles. Worse yet, it could happen while he was out of the country, trying to return home. There was such extreme secrecy surrounding the "No-Fly" list that it was difficult to find out if someone was on it for certain without their actually showing up at an airport, ticket in hand. Difficult but not impossible, at least that was her hope. It had been years since she had left the Secret Service but she still knew a few people. Someone surely had access to that list. 

She thought about their dilemma while they watched the sky over the Pacific turn red, then purple, as afternoon changed to evening. Sunsets in Los Angeles were routinely spectacular. It was due to air pollution, Greg had explained to her when she'd first moved to LA. She thought about what it would mean while they made their way down the mountain, hand in hand, the moonlight augmented with a tiny torch David had stashed in his front pocket. During their silent ride back to his house, she thought about she could do. 

By the time they arrived at the foot of his staircase, she had decided on a course of action. She would do everything within the limits of the law to find out what she could. But she wouldn't make him false promises, or offer reassurance. The hardest part was knowing that she couldn't say, "I won't leave without you." She had to leave. She had to return home, back to her children and her life in London.

They would have just two more days together before she had to get on that plane. 

David spoke first. "I know it's still early but neither of us has slept much in the past couple of days. I was thinking we should make it an early night."

She nodded, not sure what else to say. They needed to settle this. 

She needed him to be as certain as she was about this. She needed him to know that, no matter what happened, he was in her heart, forever. She took one step up the stairs, but before he could follow, she turned around. The small elevation helped with the difference in their heights, allowing her to look him directly in the eye without having to crane her neck. Without breaking her gaze, she placed one of his hands around her waist; his other hand followed suit. 

She touched his cheek. The lines around his eyes betrayed the strain he'd been under, but his gaze was steady and warm. It gave her the courage she needed to give her impromptu speech about seizing the day. They would have tonight, an unspoken promise she was determined to keep. 

In the end, she could only manage one word. "David—" _Beloved._

It was enough. His expression as he leaned forward to kiss her told her everything she needed to know.

Heathrow International Airport

Last night, David had called her from LAX, jubilant, after clearing security. He'd allowed enough extra time that he was two hours early for his scheduled flight. Their agreement was for him to call her again once the plane was in the air. She hadn't gotten a call. The flight hadn't been delayed, she'd checked. She had tried calling him and her call went straight to voice mail. Maybe he'd made other calls, maybe he'd watched a movie, and forgotten to charge his phone? Smart phones used battery time at a clip far faster than his old flip-phone. She hadn't gotten a call saying he'd been pulled off the plane and sent home. 

She paid for her over-priced latte, found a vacant table and chair in the public area in Arrivals, and settled in for a wait. His flight had landed. She'd checked and double-checked the flight board. In her experience, it could take anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours to clear immigration and customs. She wasn't anxious. She wasn't worried. That fluttery feeling in her chest? She was excited to see him again, that was all. 

The uninterrupted time they'd had together in California was a gift, if too brief. Once he arrived in London, they would have six weeks before he departed for California. His children continued their summer in New York. Her boys would spend half of each week with Mark as usual; theoretically, she could spend that time with David—except those were normally her work days, and she was often out of town. It was a problem. Before buying his ticket, she called her boss and asked for two additional weeks of vacation, beginning today.

After some internal debate, she had also called her friend at the FBI. Without going into detail, she'd asked Eleanor if there was any way to find out if a friend was on the "No-Fly" list. Eleanor had thought she was nuts and told her as much. "Not unless you are good friends with the Director, and even then, it would be iffy. I wouldn't be able to find out if my own mother was on the list." She had also reiterated what Gillian already knew: that merely being associated with the wrong people could be enough to land _her_ on the list. "Be careful, Gillian." Too late. Much, much too late.

She and David had talked it over. He'd told DARPA that he would give them a definitive answer by the beginning of September. A round-trip ticket with a return date in August would send the right message, assuming anyone was paying attention. Maybe they were worried for nothing. God, she hoped so. 

After knowing him for less than a week, she felt closer to David than she had ever felt to anyone in her life. Yet they still had so much left to learn: about each other, and about being together. They were still in the honeymoon phase, both in bed and out of it. But it was already obvious, at least to her, that they were going to have some issues going forward. They weren't kids, they were adults, with entrenched habits and fixed personalities. After many years of university teaching and running a research lab, David was used to being in charge. He was stubborn and convinced he was right 99.9% of the time. She wasn't sure how that was going to mesh with her need to be in control, most of the time. She had known he had a sharp wit, but he was also funny, playful and even mischievous at times. In the bedroom, he was a generous and inventive lover. She had wanted to feel enraptured by his lovemaking—wish granted. He took her breath away.

Waiting at home were clean sheets, a bottle of wine and two glasses, plus a stack of menus from the best delivery restaurants for when they came up for air. God, just thinking about sex with David was making her restless. Her needs were simple: she wanted him naked, in her bed, with his tongue on her clit. Not necessarily in that order.

Lost in erotic revery, she startled when David appeared at her table. "Hey." Rumpled and unshaven, wearing yesterday's clothes and a Yankee baseball cap, the man still looked good enough to eat. "Uh. I know I was supposed to call but..." He never got the chance to finish his apology. She stood up, nearly knocking over her latte, grabbed his face and kissed him. He dropped his bags, and lifted her up. "Miss me?" he said, as she wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him again. And again.

"Yes. Of course. I missed you terribly," she told him, in between kisses. 

She was in love, she was in London, she was with David.

This was going to be so much fun.

**Author's Note:**

> The story title and chapter titles all belong to the great songwriting team of Rodgers and Hart. Their music and lyrics were a constant source of inspiration while writing this fic. I own most of these records, but for those of you who don't here is my YouTube playlist: [Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL-X0O8qNTtdJgLiOA3JlElA_3j-1l0u9s).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Covert Agenda](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7337134) by [tree](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tree/pseuds/tree)




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